


Bullets and a Kiss Goodnight

by halyo



Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Western, Bandits & Outlaws, Blood and Injury, Childhood Trauma, Coming of Age, Eye Trauma, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, One-Sided Attraction, Patricide, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Revenge, Slow Burn, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, it's lighter than it sounds I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyo/pseuds/halyo
Summary: San Adrestia, New Mexico1869An Old West AU featuring Hubert and Edelgard as they grow from teenagers struck by tragedy into outlaws feared across the state. Along the way they'll discover conspiracy, mercenaries, wild horses and a mad sheriff, and maybe find solace in each other. That is, if they don't lose themselves first.Part of a series, but can be read alone.Being reposted.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712188
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Deleted by mistake, so being reposted.

San Adrestia, New Mexico

April 1869

Hubert Vestra has just turned eighteen. 

He’s not normally one for celebration. As far as he’s concerned, it’s just another dry spring day in a small town tucked away in the middle of nowhere. But everyone else seemed to enjoy making a big deal about his birthday, and he’d learned soon enough that the quicker he shut up about it, the shorter the whole ordeal would be. While an arbitrary milestone, it marks the passage from boy to man, and it only happens once in a lifetime. 

Even Edelgard had insisted on buying him a gift. Not much, mind. But that small chess set means far more than any of the expensive presents his family had lavished upon him that morning. 

She chatters amicably as they walk the Hresvelg lands. The air is rich with the smell of freshly fertilised earth, even as dry and dusty as the land may be. A handful of workers tend to the fields around them, some of them ranchers, some of them farmers, some of them newly-freed slaves. A few of them look up as Edelgard passes with her shadow in tow. Most do not. 

Life was strange out on the frontier, where all of civilisation falls away. Hubert had only been a boy when his family had moved out west to the very edge of the world. He doesn’t remember a life before the hot sun above and the arid earth beneath his feet, the smell of horses and the bark of coyotes out in the scrublands beyond. Like this he could look out on the barrens and not see another man for a thousand miles. 

The mayor’s estate is perhaps a mile and a half outside of San Adrestia, a small patch of fertile green in a land of scorched yellows and browns. The town used to be Brigid territory, once upon a time, but after the war the Adrestians had come down hard on the natives, and it sure as hell wasn’t Brigid land anymore. The farmstead is connected to the town by a winding dirt track that could lame even the most surefooted of horses should they put a hoof wrong, lined on both sides by pastures full of half-wild mustangs and cattle. 

Edelgard holds a messenger bag in one hand, hitching the front of her skirts with the other to better see where to put her feet. She had decided she wanted to go into town, and it was Hubert’s duty to ensure no harm came to her. They’d spent the afternoon together, making idle talk with the townsfolk and chasing the stray dogs that hang around the saloon. But the day was coming to a close, as it always does, and now they walk the road back to her family’s estate together.

To fill the time, Edelgard chatters away about nothing in particular, talking mostly to herself. In a household of ten children, she had to take any opportunity to make her voice heard. 

None of it is important; Hubert doesn’t care for the flowers of which she speaks, nor the birds that pick at the ploughed fields. In truth, his thoughts are far elsewhere. He had heard raised voices from the mayor’s study that morning; Sheriff William Hevring, Pastor John Varley, a handful of others. Even Hubert’s father had been involved in the discussions. It wasn’t uncommon that the mayor would assemble his top brass, but never in anger like this. 

Hubert’s mind races as they walk. There was something going on behind those doors. He was sure of it.

Despite the sense of unease that creeps up on him, he tells himself he can investigate later. For now, he has a duty to attend to.

The sun shines weakly in the sky, masked by a thick film of cloud. It makes the world seem muted, every colour washed-out. Still Edelgard sings to herself as she walks, bringing colour and joy to the landscape around them. Hubert follows silently behind her. Her voice is carried away on the wind, high and sweet. 

“Oh God our help in ages past,” she sings, “our hope for years to come, be thou our guard while troubles last--”

An explosion sounds in the distance, and Edelgard flinches at the sound. Her voice drops away, her eyes widening in fear. But Hubert lies a hand on her shoulder to reassure her.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s just Bergliez’s mine,” he explains. “Nothing for you to worry about, now.”

“I’m not scared,” she says, as if insulted by the very idea of it. But she smiles, shaking it off and carrying on back towards her father’s house. Other children would scuff their shoes and kick at stones as they go, but not Edelgard. She walks with poise and grace and dignity, head held high, eyes keen and bright. “There’s a storm a-coming,” she adds, looking up at the sky. She holds out her hand with her palm up to the heavens, as if expecting rain any second. “Can you feel it, Hubert?”

Sure enough, a sheer wall of cloud looms thick and low in the distance, the air charged, the wind whipping her long, brown hair around her face. Hubert comes to a stop at her side, looking down at her and nodding in agreement.

“You’re right,” he says quietly, letting the wind caress his cheeks.

“You _always_ say that,” Edelgard whines.

“That’s because you’re always right.”

For all those that call Hubert a sycophant, a boot-licker, he’s not wrong. Edelgard is brilliant, perceptive, intelligent far beyond her fourteen short years. Kind, too, but still naive to the harsh world beyond the edge of her father’s lands. She’ll make a fine woman, one day. He knows this sure as day follows night.

Still, she stares up at Hubert and frowns, bottom lip sticking out. “We don’t get many storms ‘round here,” she adds, daring him to prove her wrong. “You reckon we’ll get a twister?”

Hubert can only shake his head. “I doubt you need to worry about tornadoes in New Mexico, especially not this time of year. I’m sure you’ll be fine, my lady--”

“And you can stop calling me that,” Edelgard says, folding her arms and huffing to show her disapproval. “I ain’t nobody’s lady.”

He can’t help but chuckle at her defiance, a low, menacing laugh that finally fits his newly-broken voice. “Whatever you say, Lady Edelgard.”

“Hush yourself, Hubert.” She scowls up at the sky again, as if staring hard enough will make the answers become clear. There’s definitely something in the air, a nagging feeling that sits heavy over his shoulders. There’s something very unsettling about it all, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

Before he can figure out what it is, the sound of hoofbeats cut him short. At first Hubert thinks it’s the rumble of thunder, but soon a party of seven riders appears over the top of the hill, charging towards the two children at top speed. 

The chancellor, the pastor, a couple of others. Hubert would recognise them anywhere.

“Hubert,” comes a call from the posse, then the whicker of a horse being dragged to an unsteady halt. A figure dressed in black stands tall over them both, his features hidden by the shadow cast by his hat. Still, the voice is unmistakable.

Salvador Vestra is not a tolerant man. He greets his son with a nod of the head and nothing warmer than that.

“Father,” Hubert replies. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Come home, boy.” It’s a warning, clear as day. “Your ma and I need you back in town.”

Hubert frowns. There’s a hint of something that might be fear in his father’s body language, a strange sort of apprehension he’s trying to hide. His hands hold the reins far too tightly, his leg twitches in anticipation. And he keeps glancing back at the others as if asking for reassurance. In fact, all of the men in his father’s posse seem to be hiding something. Not one of them can bear to look at the children stood in their way.

“I must walk Lady Edelgard back to her family,” Hubert replies, trying to keep the suspicion out of his voice. “Unless you _want_ me to leave a young maiden alone in the middle of the barrens?”

His father scowls. “Don’t be pushing your luck, Hubert.”

“I’ll be back before sundown.”

“You’ll be back within the hour. Best hurry along now, boy.” There’s no sentiment in his father’s voice, no kindness. “If you ain’t back for your dinner, I’ll feed it to the dogs.”

The horses whinny as the riders spur them into action once again, kicking up the dust behind them. Hubert pulls his scarf up to protect his face. He watches them as they go, disappearing back on the road down to San Adrestia. 

They’re up to something.

The walk back to the Hresvelg manor is far too short. The minutes slip away like sand between his fingers, a second at a time until there’s nothing left. It doesn’t give Hubert nearly enough time to come up with a solid plan, let alone the contingencies he’s so fond of having. He doesn’t like being exposed like this; it makes him uneasy, what with the mayoral elections coming up and his father’s strange behaviour. 

That storm is still brewing on the horizon.

Hubert leaves Edelgard at the door, grabbing both her hands in his and taking a knee so he's down on her level. 

“Lady Edelgard,” he whispers. “Do not sleep alone tonight. Don’t sleep at all, if you can help it. There’s something about to happen, something real bad. I’m certain of it.”

She looks up at him with wide eyes, eyes full of concern. “Is something wrong?”

He swallows his fears, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I do not know. But my father is up to something, and it won’t be no good for man nor beast. Be safe, my lady. God willing, I will see you tomorrow, and all will be well.”

It’s a lot to ask of a god that shows little of himself around these parts. You couldn’t rely on faith out on the frontier, only on the cruelty of man and the will of the weak-minded to do nothing at all. The only faith any sane man kept out here was the sort you strapped in a gun belt at your right hip. Hubert can't help but grimace at the thought. He's always been pessimistic like that.

As soon as he's said his goodbyes, Edelgard is quickly bundled away by two of her brothers, and just like that, Hubert is alone again.

Hands in his pockets, he turns on his heel and begins the walk home. He asks his father a few probing questions over dinner, all of which are quickly diverted. There are no letters in the man’s desk, nor documents by his bed. Whatever is happening, Hubert is no closer to the truth.

He feigns sleep that night when his mother comes to check on him. Rest eludes him even at the best of times, but now he wouldn’t be able to sleep even if his life depended on it. He tries to fit the puzzle pieces together in his mind, but try as he might, he can’t work out what the seven are planning. The unknown is driving him mad.

And then, perhaps half past midnight, he hears the door open.

He’s out of bed before the lock can click itself shut, throwing on a coat over his nightclothes and taking the stairs two at a time. His mother is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, but Hubert pushes past her in a blind panic, barging the front door open and running out into the road. He’s too late; his father’s horse is disappearing into the darkness, racing towards the Hresvelg lands.

Hubert doesn’t stop to think. He can’t afford to do that. Instead, he puts his head down and runs.

The streets of San Adrestia disappear behind him. He knows the route like the back of his hand, but everything looks different at night with only the moon to light his way. As he leaves the town behind, the last of the lights disappearing behind him, he starts to struggle with the terrain. The ground is slippery underfoot, rain pelting down around him. Within minutes, Hubert is soaked to the bone, clothes sopping wet, hair plastered over his eyes. Still, he doesn’t think about the cold, or the rain. Every breath is an ordeal. He has to get there faster, faster--

He stumbles. Falls. Gets back up again. Pain darts up from his ankle with every step, but Hubert doesn’t slow down. He _can’t._

Thunder rolls around him. Hubert keeps on running. The house has to be around here somewhere, surely. He stops for a moment to catch his breath, brushing his hair from his face, wrapping his arms over his chest and trying not to shiver. The storm rages overhead, another clap of thunder splitting the night. 

And then, like a sign from God, a beacon is lit on the horizon.

A tiny bead of light maybe a quarter of a mile out, growing and spreading and turning the amber warning of flames. 

The whole house is ablaze. 

“No,” Hubert whispers, a cold steel knife sinking into his heart. His eyes widen, sick to the stomach.

And then the screams come. A man’s, first, low and hoarse, and then the high shrieks of children meeting an unthinkable fate. Every cry fills Hubert’s ears as he runs, closing the distance in just a couple of minutes.

It’s still too slow.

Hubert doesn’t come up with a plan. He only _acts,_ lashing out in his desperation. He barges through the front door, only for a wall of heat to hit him like a freight train. Smoke stings at his face, and he squeezes his eyes shut if but for a moment. It feels like the fire is deep in his lungs as he breathes, burning him up from the inside.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, but he forces himself. The flames burn into his vision, leaving bright spots and streaks over everything he sees. Any cries he’d heard before have fallen silent. 

“Edelgard!” he shouts, calling over the roar of the blaze. He screams her name like it’s the only thing that matters. 

Another breath of the smoke is too much for him and he chokes, coughing it out only for it to return a hundred times worse. But he can’t afford to waste a second. Hubert pulls his scarf up over his face, rushing through the house to find her. “Lady Edelgard!” he cries again, terror setting in.

The ceiling groans. It’s the only warning he has before a section caves in, filling the air with splinters of wood and burning embers. Each one stings his skin as he runs down the hallway to her room, the creak of the wood above his head about to give way any second. 

Hubert’s eyes are streaming now, blurring his vision. His ears ring. His chest burns. And the fire around him rages on.

A burning body blocks the end of the corridor, and Hubert’s heart sinks. But it’s too big to be her; her father, perhaps, or one of her brothers. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is finding Edelgard safe.

If she’s even still alive.

The thought fills him with dread, and he calls out once more. The air is thick, toxic and heavy, smoke filling the corridor from the top down. He kicks open the door to Edelgard’s room, sending embers flying everywhere. 

Three beds, for the three youngest sisters. There are bodies in two of them, white linen sheets a tangle of red blood and white flesh. But the third bed -- _Edelgard’s_ bed -- is empty. 

“Edelgard!” he shouts again, the world falling away in a white haze of panic.

And then a weak cry from the world outside.

“Hubert?”

The window has been thrown open, the blanket missing from the bed. 

Without a second’s hesitation, Hubert leaps through the window, dropping a few feet to the ground outside. 

Edelgard sits outside her bedroom in only her nightclothes, the torn blanket wrapped around her to preserve her modesty. It’s the only thing not touched by the flames, thick red fabric embroidered with gold brocade. She’s shaking, staring back at her family’s house slowly being consumed by the flames.

Hubert goes to her side, but she collapses into him, pressing her head against his chest and clamping her hands over her ears as she screams in anguish and fear and pain. She’s begging, to Hubert, to God, to _anybody._

Despite her heartache, Hubert doesn’t hear her words. He knows only that they need to get out of there.

He takes her by the hand. “Lady Edelgard--”

“We gotta go back,” she says quietly. Her breathing is shallow, eyes wide. She looks a second away from breaking, and Hubert takes her by the shoulders, trying to get her away from danger.

“What we need is to get out of here--”

“We gotta go back,” she shouts this time, hysterical. She fights like a cornered wildcat in Hubert’s grip, scrabbling and writhing to get free. “Hubert! Take me back! We can’t leave them. We can’t-- I can’t-- my family-- my sisters-- _please, Hubert,_ I ain't leaving--”

She collapses into sobs, her words dissolving to strangled keening noises so unlike herself. Her body convulses against his, her shrieks ringing in his ears. The sound clamps Hubert’s heart in a vice. Edelgard is a kind-hearted and loving child, generous and bright. She’s innocent of any crime. She deserves none of this.

And yet, here they are.

“Come, Edelgard,” he says quietly, trying to steady his hands as he lifts her back to her feet. She holds his chest, pushing all her meagre weight against him. Unsure, she stumbles as she walks, dragging her feet against the ground.

So she doesn’t complain when Hubert scoops her up into his arms. He holds her close, and in return she clutches at him the way a baby possum clings to its mother, her fingers hooked tightly into his coat.

The walk back to San Adrestia is illuminated by the burning house on the horizon, the blaze raging still. The rain can do little to sate the fire, always spreading, hungry for more. Hubert checks over his shoulder every few minutes: the flames extend out to the agricultural fields, first, then the ranch and the scrubland beyond until everything is swallowed up by the fire. 

Hubert’s arms are cramping by the time he lets her down in the stable behind his house, his back aching, his fingers stiff and sore. It wasn’t a long journey, but he’s hardly the strongest man in town, and after a mile and a half of walking, Edelgard had become very heavy indeed.

Still, he’d walk a thousand miles and more for her without even asking why.

Edelgard sinks gratefully down to the ground, surrounded by the smell of horses and straw. The acrid bite of the smoke lingers above it all, ash and soot covering her clothes, her hair, her skin. The stench of it is almost too much to bear. 

Hubert crouches down next to her, draping the blanket around her slight frame again. His father’s horse is still missing from its stall; wherever the seven men are now, their business is not finished yet.

“My father has some wicked part in this. He cannot know you’re here.” Hubert brushes the wet hair from Edelgard’s face, touching one finger to the centre of her lips to remind her to stay quiet. “You can sleep in the stable tonight,” he suggests. “It’s not right that you should be reduced to this, but it’s all I can offer for now.”

Edelgard sniffs, nodding slightly. She uses the heel of her hand to wipe the tears from her face, already trying to hold back her emotion. Like this she seems so much younger than fourteen years, stood wrapped in a blanket and shivering. There’s a fire buried within her, Hubert knows that. But here, soaked through and shivering, with smoke ingrained into her clothes and her hands black with soot, she looks nothing more than the terrified child she is, little more than a minute away from falling apart.

“We gotta go to the sheriff,” she says quietly. “He’ll know what to do.”

Hubert doesn’t know how to tell her that the sheriff is complicit in all this, that there’s no-one they can turn to. Instead, he adjusts the blanket around her, pulling it tight to try and offer her some warmth. 

“At least we have each other,” he says quietly. “I’ll never leave your side, my lady--”

He’s cut off by the sound of voices.

Terrified, he grabs Edelgard by the front of her dress, dragging her back behind the stall. She goes to cry out, but he clamps his hand over her mouth before she can let out a noise.

“Shh,” he whispers, not yet the master of his own fear. His heart beats like a war drum inside his chest. “Don’t let them hear you.”

Sure enough, the voices become louder, just enough to make out the occasional word. Hubert can match every voice to a man in his father’s posse. Varley, Aegir, Arundel. He strains to hear what they’re saying, but try as he might he can’t make out a word. They’re still too quiet.

He peeks around the edge of the stall, hoping that the darkness will hide his movements. Sure enough: seven men, seven guarded expressions, and the pungent smell of fuel oil. His father’s sleeves are rolled to the elbows, his hands and wrists dark with soot. Sickened, he chances a closer look--

A fatal mistake.

His father snaps his head up, tearing over to the stall before Hubert can react. A flicker of movement and there’s a posse of guns trained on both the children, dark eyes fixed in accusing stares. And a whisper, a low voice full of anger.

“We’re being watched.”

Vicious, Hubert's father grabs his son by the arm, dragging him out into the open. Edelgard calls for him, but she's quickly set upon by two more of the men, slamming her into the wall by the throat, then forcing her to the floor. She crumples like a ragdoll, defeated.

Hubert shakes off his father's grip. “Get them away from her,” he spits, hands trembling at his side. Still, he raises his chin and clenches his jaw, staring his father in the eye. His voice is low and shaky but he stands firm. The rain is torrential, now, so bad he can barely see more than a yard in front of him. Water runs down his face, dripping from his nose and chin.

This time, though, his father isn't taking no for an answer. He motions with his gun. Up close, Hubert can see that the dark stains on his hands aren’t soot at all, but blood, slowly washing off in the rain. “Stand aside, boy. I won’t ask again.”

“I won’t let you take her,” Hubert warns, shouting over the sound of the storm. He raises his hands to protect himself. “She's my friend. You can't--”

He doesn’t finish.

One of the men tackles him to the floor. He hits the ground hard, the world spinning around him. His vision flashes, white, then stars, then back to the half-lit midnight sky.

A gun is jammed to the back of Hubert’s head, and fear grips him from the inside. Hot blood suddenly runs cold, a shiver running through his body. 

“Father,” he whispers. “Father, please--”

“Don’t shoot him,” comes the sound of his father’s voice from somewhere out of sight. “The boy’s a sentimental fool, but he’s still my son.”

A sharp-tongued reply. Varley, Hubert thinks, but he can’t be sure. “He’ll tell on us.” 

“He wouldn’t dare. He’s a yellow-bellied little runt. Can’t even walk straight without the wind blowing him to one side." There's a bitter note to his father's voice. Disappointed, almost. "Besides, who would he tell? The sheriff? No, they got nowhere to run to, nowhere they can hide.”

Just out of reach, Arundel twists Edelgard’s hands behind her back, pinning her against the floor and holding her face-down in the dirt. She kicks and writhes and bites like an animal, but her captor is twice her size and showing no mercy. Hubert shouts for her. His cries achieve nothing. But he screams anyway, pleads, begs, anything to get her free. Try as he might, though, he can only watch as Edelgard is struck around the face to silence her, as she’s dragged across the ground to a white horse. Her body is thrown unceremoniously over its back, her white shift dress now grey with soot and mud.

Hubert’s eyes start to well with tears as he stares up at his father. “Please--”

“Let him go, John.”

Varley eases his gun back down to his side, but Hubert can’t relax, not with all the eyes on him. He staggers to his feet, just in time for Arundel to kick the horse up to a canter, and then Edelgard is disappearing off into the night, gone without a trace.

“No!” he shouts, but he’s met with a fist to the face. 

The world goes dark for a moment and he collapses to the ground again. The left side of his face stings with the impact, his body sprawled and useless on the dirt below. 

His father crouches down to the ground, gun still in hand. “Stupid,” he hisses, the word like a snakebite in Hubert’s ears. “Stupid, foolish boy, sticking your dirty little fingers into business that don’t concern you.”

“Bring her back,” Hubert pleads, using his forearms to protect his face. He struggles to breathe between the sobs that seize his chest. “Please, father. Bring her back--”

Once again he doesn’t finish. Hubert’s father grabs him by the hair, dragging him back to the house. Their argument only lasts a few short minutes before Hubert is slammed face-first onto the table, bloodying his nose and making his head spin.

The leather of his father’s belt bites the back of his legs, over and over. 

Hubert is left half-naked and trembling in the kitchen, gripping at the edge of the table and hissing quietly to himself in pain. It's not the red belt-marks that hurt, though, not really. It's the realisation that Edelgard is gone, her family destroyed. He has no idea what will become of her, and the feeling gnaws at him from the inside. 

He crosses his fingers and wishes all of this was just a bad dream. But God has never been so merciful.

Ever the tactician, Hubert starts to draft up plans to find her, to bring her home. Not that there was much of a home to bring her back to, mind, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Arundel had said something about Faerghus County. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was something. Hubert could ride out there, start looking for clues. He’d have to sort out his possessions, first, take his father’s horse so the man couldn’t follow him. Perhaps he could hire someone to do his riding and shooting for him -- with what money, Hubert doesn’t know, but he’ll sort something out.

He doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

As the sun rises the next morning he finds a blanket left in the stable, its vivid red colour tainted with ash and dirt. He brings the rough fabric to his face, inhaling the sharp stench of smoke, and the slight smell of Edelgard beneath it all, the memory of a girl he would consider his closest friend.

He can fix this. He knows this, as certain as anything.

Hubert stares out at the barrens in the hope that the answers will appear. Even after last night’s storm, the Hresvelg lands are still smouldering. There’s nothing out there but burnt wood and dead bodies, no greenery or life or anything worth salvaging. And beyond that, not a soul for another two hundred miles until Adrestian lands became Faerghus County, New Mexico.

No, not nothing. Somewhere out there, Edelgard is waiting for him.

He’ll find a way to get her back. And then he'll never leave her side again.

Aged eighteen years and a day, Hubert Vestra makes his promise.


	2. Chapter 2

San Adrestia, New Mexico

July 1870

Hubert chews at a cigarette as he works, cleaning the clouded glasses behind the bar. It’s menial work that even a half-wit could do, far beneath a man of his talents. Still, humble as the job may be, it sure beat working for his father.

His mind is far from the glasses and bottles at the bar. As always, his thoughts are consumed by one thing and one thing alone. 

Edelgard had turned sixteen just a couple of weeks ago. 

He hasn’t seen her in over a year. 

After that night he’d packed his bags and ran, setting out on a desperate mercy mission to find her. But even though he’d set off before the break of dawn, without a horse he hadn’t been able to travel more than a few miles before the sun and the rough ground became too much for him. He hadn’t even made it as far as the creek before his father had tracked him down and dragged him home, and it was there that he’d stayed ever since. 

Hubert had been employed at the saloon for about a year now, saving up every dollar he could spare. He had enough hidden under his floorboards that soon he could be out of here, out of this backwater town full of turncoats and conspirators. That was the thing about places like San Adrestia; people come and go, but they never truly leave for good. Fate drags them back to the little dustbowl in which they were born, one way or another.

The midday sun peeks between closed curtains.

“You serving in here?” comes a voice, the shutter-doors swinging open. A woman stands in the doorway, hauntingly beautiful despite her age. Hubert barely notices. His eyes are drawn to the gunbelt she wears around her waist instead.

“Open ‘til midnight,” he calls, tossing his towel over his shoulder and leaning over the counter. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

“Two fingers of the good stuff. And don’t be stingy on your measure.”

Hubert complies in silence, watching the woman out the corner of his eye as she approaches. She isn’t all that tall, but she holds herself with an air of gravitas, her dress trimmed with fur and covered in fine embroidery. Whoever she is, she’s important. And doesn’t she just know it: she wears a self-satisfied smile on painted lips, but her eyes are cold and judgemental. Strawberry-blonde hair spills over her shoulders, drawing the eye down the low neckline of her dress.

A smirk. “Like what you see, boy?”

Embarrassed, Hubert clears his throat. He turns his attention back to the woman’s face, placing her glass down on the counter in front of him. “The name’s Hubert,” he says. “It would do you well to use it.”

“Cornelia. The pleasure’s all mine.”

“So where have you come from?” he asks, taking a dollar from her in payment. He gets only a knowing smile in reply, then a long pause as she takes a sip of her drink.

“You know Faerghus?” she asks eventually, and Hubert nods. “I’m bringing bad news.”

A sense of foreboding settles over him. Just the mention of the place made him nervous. But he keeps his voice low and his expression neutral, just as he does with every customer. “Care to tell?” he asks, as if it’s nothing more than polite conversation. “We’re hardly busy.”

He’s not wrong. Besides him, Cornelia, and the kitchen boy, the saloon is empty. She lowers her voice anyway, just in case. 

“There’s a settlement just outside town, full of freed slaves. Duscur, they call it. Seems like their freedom weren’t enough for them. Wanted Faerghus for themselves. They rose up, came into town looting and murdering, burning anything they couldn’t steal for themselves. Killed the sheriff and his deputy. Raped the women. And the things they did to the children...”

She smiles, cruel and cold.

Hubert listens in quiet unease, but he narrows his eyes at her words. Something about it doesn’t add up. “That seems like a lot of damage for a few starving slave families,” he counters.

“They’re feral folk. No better than animals.” Cornelia trails one sharp fingernail around the rim of her glass. She spits to the floor suddenly, but something about her disgust seems feigned, fickle. “Of course, then the law came down hard on them, wiped them all out. Good riddance, if you ask me. There’s no place for them--”

“Enough about Duscur,” Hubert whispers, his hands tightening around the edge of the bar. His voice is strained, his eyes dark. “Do you know of a girl in that town? Edelgard Hresvelg. She’d be sixteen years old, maybe five feet tall, with long, brown hair. And beautiful. Very beautiful. Tell me you know of her.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Edelgard, hm? That sure is an unusual name.” She looks down into her drink, eyes drifting to one side. Her fingers tighten around the glass. “Shame it don’t ring a bell.”

“You’re lying,” Hubert snaps. He’s never been more sure of anything.

Out of nowhere, Cornelia laughs, throwing her head back in amusement. It’s a beautiful sound, but it’s sharp as ground glass, cutting straight to the bone. “Well, aren’t you a perceptive one?” she starts, taking another sip of her drink. Hubert just stands and waits, fingers drumming against the bar in anticipation. They stare at each other for a while, neither willing to give first. 

Hubert runs his free hand over the gun held beneath the counter in case of emergency.

“Fine,” she cedes eventually. “Last I heard of the little brat, she disappeared in the chaos. No-one’s seen her for days.”

“No,” Hubert starts. He reaches for the gun. “Tell me the truth.”

That laugh again. Just the sound of it makes Hubert’s heart constrict. “I’m telling the truth, boy. Ten bucks says the folks from Duscur got her. And if they didn’t, well, the natives sure as hell did. Poor darling won’t make it to the end of this week. Not intact, at least--”

Hubert doesn’t need to hear any more.

He pulls off his apron, vaulting the counter and charging out through the saloon doors before either of them can get another word in. He needs to find a horse. Get to Faerghus. Somehow, he’ll find her. A plan springs half-formed and rough into his mind as he runs, refining the details piece by piece--

Hubert stops dead in his tracks.

A horse trots down the main street, cast like a marble statue in the bright light of the midday sun.

Around him, people stop and stare, some peeking out from behind curtains and around corners, others fixing the newcomer with fearful glares. Whispers surround him, rumours and speculation and suspicion. He squints against the sun, trying to pick out details. He can feel the uncertainty in the air. 

And yet something draws him towards the rider coming in from the north, the small figure of a woman slumped almost lifelessly atop a white horse.

Hubert’s heart almost stops then and there.

It had been over a year since he’d last seen her, but he’d recognise her anywhere, her face burnt into the back of his mind in the same way a candle does if you dare to stare for too long into the flame. 

The girl -- young woman, really -- is bowed in the saddle, leaning against the horse’s neck and clinging on for dear life. Her dress is covered in blood, spatters of red across her arms and face. She looks exhausted, dirty, her elbows scraped and caked in dust and grit. Dark shadows sit heavy under her eyes. But despite it all, her beauty shines through.

It’s Edelgard. Of this, he has no doubt.

She’s changed. A year older, sure, her body slowly growing into womanhood. But there’s something cold and harsh in her expression, a darkness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Her hair has bleached to blonde in the sun, the colour so faint it’s almost white. 

Despite everything, though, she hasn’t changed at all.

Hubert stands in the middle of the street. And then he races up to the horse, grabbing it by the bridle and halting it where it stands.

“Lady Edelgard,” he says quietly, taking her hand in his and staring up into her eyes. He can’t quite believe it. She’s like a ghost in the desert, so pale and bright it almost hurts to look at her. If it wasn’t for the feeling of her hand in his, he’d almost think he was dreaming.

“Hubert,” she whispers, her lips chapped, her eyes unfocussed. “I knew you’d find me.”

His heart leaps at the sound of her voice. She _is_ real, after all. Relief washes over him, and then fear as reality sets in.

“I wish I could greet you properly, but I’m afraid there’s no time. A woman in the saloon told me about Duscur--”

“Cornelia.” Edelgard’s eyes widen in fear. She gasps, suddenly, a whimper escaping her lips. Her bloodied hands tighten into the horse’s mane, the memories flashing past her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come back.”

Whatever that means, it’s not good news. 

“We have to get out of here,” Hubert realises. “It isn’t safe. Don’t worry, I’ve prepared everything we need.”

He’s been waiting for this day for a long, long time.

Hubert takes the horse by the reins and Edelgard with it, walking quickly through the streets and avoiding the stares sent their way. He ties the horse up outside his house, promising to be in and out within the minute. He’d been preparing for this for a year, after all. 

There’s a set of saddlebags already packed beneath his bed. He doesn’t need much, but he slings a satchel over his shoulders anyway, just clothes and books. That blanket, too, red and gold and still smelling faintly of smoke. He scrabbles at the loose floorboard until he’s prised it up, picking the tin full of his savings from its hiding place. 

He hesitates at the door to his father’s room. But he takes the rifle from the side of the bed, and a spare belt of ammunition. He slips a letter to his mother beneath her pillow, a letter he’d written and rewritten far too many times over the last few months. It’s a rare show of sentimentality. He hopes he won’t come to regret it.

Hubert picks his hat and coat from the hook by the door. A quick glance back is all he allows himself as he leaves his key on the kitchen table, then shuts the door behind him.

Edelgard is waiting for him, still perched atop that white horse.

They ride out of town together, Hubert in the saddle, Edelgard behind him with her arms around his chest. Just like before, she holds on for dear life, her grip painfully tight. He digs his feet into the horse’s flanks hard enough to leave a mark, pushing the animal as fast as it’ll go. They ride until San Adrestia is a smear on the distant horizon, until the sun sits low and the sky is beginning to go dark, until the horse huffs in exhaustion and refuses to walk any further. After that, Hubert dismounts and carries on the rest of the way on foot. He doesn’t yet know where he’s going, but still he scours the land for somewhere to spend the night. 

They travel in silence, for a while. Edelgard sits in the saddle and stares at the horizon, her body rocking in time with the horse’s gait. She doesn’t seem to be in any mood for talking. Hubert respects her enough not to pry, but there is so much he wishes to say to her, so much he needs to know. He’ll find answers to his questions, one way or another.

He busies himself with making camp instead, once he’s picked a sheltered place for the night; starting a fire, cracking open a couple of cans for their evening meal. Still Edelgard sits on the back of the horse, staring into the flames, her eyes shell-shocked and vacant.

Once they’ve got a makeshift campsite, Hubert offers her his hand, helping her down from the horse. After countless hours in the saddle her knees are weak, her legs trembling as she takes her first unsteady steps. All he can do is lead her to the fire, sitting her down and placing a hot meal in front of her. She picks at her food, but barely says a word beyond a courteous “Thank you.”

They eat in silence.

“Arundel took you to Faerghus,” Hubert starts, once the plates have been scraped clean and he’s pushed a mug of hot coffee into her hands to keep her warm. Edelgard nods, but refuses to elaborate. There’s something cold and bitter in her expression, almost hostile.

“He did.”

“Why did he let you live?” he asks, placing his hands around hers.

Edelgard shakes her head. “The answer is too awful to speak.”

Hubert frowns, his throat tightening in fear. Dread and worry sit deep inside him. “You wouldn’t tell me?”

“I cannot.”

He squeezes her hands in reassurance, then looks her over from her forehead to her feet, taking in the sight of her the way a drowning man clings to a rope. Edelgard’s hair is matted and dirty, hanging limp around her face. The white silks of her dress are ruined, covered in brown patches where old blood has stained the fabric. And there are marks on her arms, pockmarks and raised dots against otherwise flawless skin.

He runs his fingers over the scars. “What are these?” he asks quietly, turning her wrists over one way, then the other. “What did he do to you?”

Edelgard shakes her head. “Morphine,” she says quietly. “For my injuries.”

“But you seem in good health.”

“Some wounds don’t leave a scar.” She looks away, lips pressed tightly together. Without another word, she lifts the coffee to her lips, blowing the steam away to cool it down. 

A lone coyote howls out in the barrens, high and mournful.

Hubert picks the blanket from the ground, unfolding it and draping it around Edelgard’s shoulders. The crest of flames sits at her back, flickering slightly in the evening breeze. The bright red fabric only serves to make her look paler, almost painfully so.

“There are gaps in my memory,” she says all of a sudden, her gaze a thousand miles away. Even the way she speaks is different, now, formal and polite. If Hubert didn’t know her face better than he knew his own, he almost wouldn’t believe it was her. “They say I fell from my horse,” she continues. “Hit my head. I lost much of my time in Faerghus. The memories come, from time to time. But even so…”

“There is much you don’t remember,” Hubert finishes, and Edelgard nods in affirmation. She lifts her dress to the knee, pulling a short hunting knife from her boot.

“There was a boy,” she says quietly, staring at the blade. The metal reflects the firelight back at her, light and shadow dancing across her face. “He was dear to me. But the memories are bitter, what little of them I know. I don’t wish to speak of it.”

Hubert nods. “Very well. I won’t pry. But should you ever need to confide in me, my lady, I’ll do everything in my power to ease your pain.”

“Thank you, Hubert.”

He nods again, but he says nothing else. He’ll unravel the mysteries surrounding her in time, but for now he’s content with knowing she’s safe.

That night, as the campfire burns low and the darkness sets in, as the coyotes howl out in the wastes and embers swirl through the air, Edelgard comes and sits at his side. There’s maybe a foot in height between them, now, the difference like a vast chasm he’ll never be able to bridge. But she lies down next to him when they go to sleep, the shape of her body fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece.

He wraps his arms around her and holds her tight.

They fall asleep together with the flames burning beside them.

~.*.~

New Leicester, Disputed Territory

January 1871

Six months ago they’d run away as children. And as it turned out, the world was a lot colder and harsher than either of them had thought.

Hubert and Edelgard had followed the half-constructed railroad east out past the creek, then kept on going, mile after painstaking mile. They’d made slow progress with only one horse between the two of them, slowly trekking across the barrens and stopping off in any village they came across, begging for food and shelter. The money Hubert had earned in the saloon had gotten them as far as New Leicester, a decent-sized city on the Texas border, just south of the reservoir. But word was spreading, now, stories of a young man from San Adrestia who’d stolen a girl away and disappeared off into the barrens. Last Hubert had heard, there was a ten-dollar reward for any information about his whereabouts, and a fifty-dollar reward for whoever brought Edelgard back alive.

With the towns came people, and with people came attention, and that attention was a risk Hubert wasn’t willing to take.

So they’d made camp out in the wilderness, only venturing into the town for supplies and ammunition. They’d been teaching themselves to shoot using the rifle Hubert had stolen from his father’s room, but the rounds were expensive, and most of his money had been shot out at the tin cans down by the reservoir they used as target practice. Even in a town of a thousand people, there wasn’t much in the way of work, and cash was hard to come by.

Sleeping rough was far from the romantic dream Hubert had hoped it would be. Some nights they’d lie under the sky together, scheming and planning and looking for patterns in the stars and galaxies above. He could listen to Edelgard talk forever, always so calm and dignified but with that cold iron beneath. He’d listen to that beautiful voice, that laugh, wishing it could stay this way forever as the warm evening breeze caressed their bodies and the stars twinkled overhead. Other nights, though, the heavens opened and summer storms crashed overhead, or cold winter winds blew down from the north, bringing with them frost and ice. Sure, they had a bivouac for shelter and blankets to stave off the cold, but that was little comfort against the harsh reality of mother nature. Even huddled together for warmth, they’d wake freezing cold and shivering, the ache of winter deep inside them. And more than once they’d been forced to put their newfound shooting skills to good use as a rattlesnake or coyote got too close for comfort.

Twice men of the law had tracked them down. Twice Hubert had disposed of the bodies under cover of darkness.

There really was no mercy out on the frontier.

Edelgard had begun to draft up a list of names and locations, a hit list of sorts. She wasn’t going to stop until every last one of them was dead, until those who slither in the dark were wiped from the earth. She’d set to the task with single-minded focus, drawing links and anticipating their next moves. It had consumed her every waking moment, so much so that she hadn’t noticed as the days had become shorter and colder, as the weather took a turn for the worse, as their meals became smaller and their ammunition stores ran low. Even the horse had begun to look malnourished and bedraggled, its mane matted and its coat threadbare.

Hubert had pawned off his watch a few weeks ago, but once again the money had run out. And this time, they truly had nothing left to spare.

They sit under a cloudless sky, the weak January sun pale and cold.

Hubert is tired. Last night was the coldest he’d ever been, and he’d barely slept a wink. He hadn’t eaten, either, not since a breakfast of watery grits yesterday morning. That was the last of their food. And with no ammunition, hunting was off the cards. 

It feels like the end of the road.

He balances his morning coffee in his lap. It keeps the cold and the hunger away, for a while, but it’s far from a permanent fix.

“We could shoot?” Edelgard offers, but Hubert just shakes his head. She frowns, biting down on her bottom lip. Pragmatic as always, she’s desperate for a solution. Something, _anything,_ to fill their time. “We could spar?”

“Is that really a good idea, my lady?” Hubert replies, looking out to the town on the horizon. His last cigarette burns between his lips, filling his lungs with smoke. It’s of little comfort against the cold.

“At least it’d get us moving. I’m freezing,” Edelgard says lamely, breathing into her hands to keep them warm as she settles down at his side. Her fingers have gone dark, icy-cold to the touch. She watches the smoke from the campfire twisting in the sky, the flame below long burnt-out. Her slender body shivers all over.

Sometimes Hubert forgets that for all her beauty and wisdom and grace, she’s only sixteen years old.

“I know,” he says quietly, flicking the dog-end onto the fire pit. He exhales the last of the smoke into the frigid morning air, only a few degrees above freezing point. He wraps his arm around her shoulders. It might be the end of the line, but he can’t give up.

Hubert gets to his feet, stretching out and rubbing his hands together for warmth. He fetches the old blanket from the sleeping mats and drapes it around Edelgard’s shoulders. She looks up at him with a burning question in her eyes, but he shakes his head. He knows what he has to do.

The horse whinnies in protest as he approaches. Hubert doesn’t care that the animal is just as tired and hungry as they are. There are more important things on his mind. 

He pulls himself up into the saddle and begins the short ride into town, setting off with a click of his tongue and a sharp dig to the horse’s flanks. New Leicester grows closer by the minute, slowly coming into view. He'll find work, even just for a day. 

He doesn't have a choice.

By now he’s well-used to the looks, but there’s always something about a black-clad stranger riding in with his hat pulled down that makes the common folk of the town nervous. Hubert’s hands are tight around the reins, his teeth gritted together.

The town is maybe three times the size of San Adrestia, its church a little taller, its main street a little longer. There are more brick and mortar buildings than there are made of wood, glass in every window in the place of lowly shutters. But despite the differences, much remains the same. Saloon, church, bank, grocer’s, a stables on the edge of town and then the barrens beyond. A young girl stares at him as he rides down the main street, her hair the same white-blonde as Edelgard’s. 

“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” he chastises, and the girl frowns, whispering something under her breath before turning and disappearing back into the house. Hubert smiles to himself. It’s good to see his intimidating appearance is having at least _some_ effect.

The saloon doesn't have work on offer, nor does the stables. The shops are fully-staffed, and the ranges and farms don't need spare hands during the off-season. Besides, there were local men that needed a job far more than this hostile stranger who won't even give his full name.

There was only one kind of work they'd wanted in that town, and Hubert was never going to allow Edelgard to stoop to _that._

Still, he'd got a tip-off from one of the girls at the whorehouse that there was money to be made, if he could stomach it. He'd immediately discarded the idea, but after a long afternoon of searching for honest work and finding nothing, his options are beginning to run low.

Which is why Hubert finds himself back in the saloon, watching his target from the corner of the room.

The man is a queer-looking fellow, but clearly wealthy. Perhaps fifty years old, but with none of the weathering of old age. His wallet is thick with cash, dressed in fine clothes and expensive riding boots, a thick gold signet ring on his finger. A six-shooter is holstered at his hip, all gold and mahogany. And a pristine white handkerchief sits in his pocket, one corner embroidered with a dark red rose. 

His name is Elias J. Gloucester. As far as Hubert can tell, he's alone.

Hubert picks his way across the floor, sidling up to Gloucester and whispering in the man's ear. He’d prepared what he was going to say, but even having rehearsed it a hundred times it still sounds awkward, clunky. Unsure, Hubert fumbles the words, but he doesn't dare stop to think, instead naming his price and disappearing out the back of the saloon before he can even get an answer.

He waits outside with his back to the wall, lighting the cigarette he’d scrounged off the bartender to steady his trembling hands. He can feel his heart behind his ribs, blood rushing in his ears. The anticipation is tight in his chest.

The stench of tobacco smoke does little to quell his fear. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get that bitter taste out of his mouth.

Gloucester appears a few minutes later, coat on, hat pulled down low. He tilts Hubert's chin up to better take a look at his face, inspecting him like a buyer looks over livestock at a cattle fair.

"You sure aren't much to look at," Gloucester says matter-of-factly, "and rather too skinny for my liking. But a deal's a deal, and I'm a man of my word. Get on your knees."

Hubert’s legs tremble, his whole body crying out in protest. He stands stupidly for a moment, evaluating his options. 

He was never going to go through with it. His plan was a simple one; tempt the man somewhere quiet, steal what he could and hightail it out of there. Still, Hubert swallows, hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Should his plan fall through, this will be how he dies, out the back of a saloon on his knees like a common whore.

Is he really this desperate?

He thinks back to Edelgard, blanket wrapped around her, freezing hands clutching at a tin mug of weak, black coffee. He thinks of the way she frowns when she shoots, of the way she curls up next to him on the coldest nights for warmth. He thinks of her smile, her laugh, now a rare sight indeed.

Yes, he really would do anything for her.

He braces up against the wall of the saloon to steady himself as he sinks to his knees. A hand settles on his shoulder, then a voice. 

“This your first time?”

Hubert can only hang his head to let his fringe cover his face. He shuts his eyes, grits his teeth and nods slightly, still not daring to look up. Shame rises hot and sour inside him.

Gloucester speaks again, softer this time. “Thought as much. How old are you, boy?” 

“Nineteen,” Hubert replies. He feels like he’s going to throw up at any second, his shaking arms a minute from giving way. The quicker he can get all of this over with, the better.

 _"Nineteen,_ ” Gloucester repeats, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, nineteen. Only a year older than my son. You must be pretty desperate to come to me.” Despite his words, he’s smiling as he starts to work on his belts, loosening the holster at his hip. Hubert can see the excitement in Gloucester’s face, already giddy at the thought of getting his money’s worth. “You ever need me again, come find me. I could do with a boy of your disposition.”

Just the sound of those words makes anger rise up inside Hubert’s chest, but he suppresses it down for now. He spits into the dust. His voice is hoarse, a dry rasp that comes out sharp as a knife. “I don’t plan on spending too long in this town, sir.”

Gloucester laughs. “After an entrance like that one? No, I wouldn’t presume so. Now, that’s enough chat, don’t you think? Get on with it.”

Hubert’s hands shake as he struggles with the man’s belt, staring intently at the six-shooter. He lets his fingers stray slowly, just enough that his target won’t notice him reaching for the gun. All he needs is a few more inches, a few seconds--

Gloucester grabs Hubert by the hair, forcing his head.

Quick as a rattler strike, Hubert reaches for the gun, pulling it from the holster and jabbing it into whatever flesh he can find. The movement takes Gloucester by surprise. He grunts, then takes a sudden step back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Give me your wallet,” Hubert says, a threat whispered into the still, dry air. He thumbs back the hammer of the gun, cocking the weapon with a _click_ as he rises back to his feet. The barrel is pointed at the base of Gloucester’s stomach, and Hubert leans in to whisper in his ear. “Your watch, too. And your rings. And I think I’ll keep the gun. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

Gloucester goes to call for help, but Hubert just laughs, a low chuckle beneath his breath. Inside he’s a mess of warring emotions -- fear, mostly, bordering on panic -- but he keeps a lid on it all, maintaining the cold stare and blank expression he’s worked so hard to perfect.

“I wouldn’t scream if I were you,” he adds dryly, watching as the colour drains from the man’s face, as the fear sets in. “Hand them over. Quick, now, and I’ll be on my way. Unless you _want_ everyone in town to see you out the back of a saloon with a man half your age?”

The startled look he gets in reply tells him everything he needs to know.

Hubert leaves the saloon with a wallet full of cash, a watch in his pocket and a gun tucked into his belt. He smiles to himself. He could get used to this.

His business is conducted quickly. The essentials, nothing more, without wasting a second. It won’t be long before the law comes after him, and Hubert wants to be as far away as possible by the time word starts to spread. By the time he’s done the saddlebags are full, the horse huffing in indignation at having to carry extra weight. 

Something catches his eye as he goes to leave, though: a stables on the outside of town with maybe thirty horses already broken in, the sign above the yard proudly announcing itself as ‘Edmund & Sons’.

Hubert can’t walk on by. 

Insects swarm around the horses, some tamed and broken, some still wild. The whole place stinks of manure and horsehair, worsened a thousand times by the heat. The ground is trampled smooth and even underfoot. 

He finds himself drawn to a huge black horse in a paddock all of its own. At a glance he’d put it at seventeen hands high, mane and tail unkempt, dark eyes tracking him as he approaches. It paws at the ground, restless.

Slowly, Hubert approaches it with his hand out, but the creature screams and rears, eyes rolling in fear. It staggers back, hooves flailing. Startled, Hubert leaps back, out of the horse’s reach. It kicks out for a moment or two before settling down again, but its tail still flicks from side to side, ears flattened against its head. A nervous whinny fills the air.

Hubert scowls. He’ll find another one. Something better-behaved, perhaps.

“Excuse me?” comes a soft voice, so quiet it’s barely there at all. He turns to face the woman, watching her as she approaches.

She looks like a songbird, small and plain and flighty, as if she’ll disappear at the slightest noise. Her eyes are fixed on the ground, looking up every few seconds before dropping her eyes in embarrassment again. Her hair is neatly braided in a crown around her head, her floor-length blue dress trailing along the ground as she walks. She clutches a crucifix at the end of a necklace between her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I don’t mean to interrupt. I can go, if you--”

“The name’s Vestra,” Hubert says, offering his hand out to her. “I’m interested in buying this animal. It should be going cheap, if it’s still wild.”

The woman stares at his hand as if she’s afraid he’ll break her fingers, but eventually she slips her palm into his. Her handshake is weak, delicate, a porcelain doll that may shatter at any second. “Marianne,” she whispers. She drops her hand sharpish. “And she’s not wild. Not at all.”

“That thing looks pretty feral to me,” he counters. 

“She’s afraid of her own shadow,” Marianne explains, taking the horse by its halter rope and gently guiding its head around. She murmurs as she works, talking to the horse to reassure it and leading it over to the paddock fence. A gentle pull on the horse’s halter brings it around so it’s facing the sun, so its shadow stretches unseen behind it.

And just like that, the horse is calm, snorting quietly in contentment. Curious, it noses at her chest, whickering for attention.

Marianne smiles to herself as she strokes down the nose of the horse, still whispering. “This one is a strong-willed, stubborn young mare,” she explains, staring at the creature like it understands her. “She needs a loving hand. They were gonna put a bullet in her, see. Said she couldn’t be tamed. She looks big and wild, but really she’s just afraid, that’s all. And the more they hurt her, the worse it gets.” Marianne closes her eyes, if just for a moment. “She only lashes out ‘cause she’s scared.”

Hubert walks over to stand next to her, still a little wary of the horse. But he reaches to it, placing his palm up against the creature’s nose. It snorts again, getting used to the smell of his hands, then nibbles at his glove. There’s an intelligence in the creature’s eyes, buried deep. It’s not that Hubert likes horses -- quite the opposite, if he’s honest. They’re stupid creatures, and they cost too much and take too much maintenance, and they smell downright _offensive._ But something about this one makes him pause for thought. It’s irrational, not to mention hopelessly sentimental, but he feels a sort of misguided sympathy for the animal.

He thinks back to Edelgard again, to the disparaging remarks she’d make if she knew of what he was doing. Perhaps, for once, it’s better that she isn’t here to judge.

Besides, if anyone understands fiery young mares with a distrust of men, it’s him. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I think I see that.”

He runs his hand up the horse’s jaw, checking its teeth, its ears, its legs. Other than the slightly wild look in its eyes, it’s a fine-looking creature, strong and healthy. 

The horse huffs quietly, huge eyes staring down at him. 

“I’ll take her,” he says, deciding then and there.

“You’ll give her a good home?” Marianne asks, clearly delighted. 

Her excitement is short-lived, however. Hubert dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “I’ll give you twenty dollars for the animal, no more.”

Marianne’s face falls. She looks like she wants the ground to swallow her whole.

“My--” she starts, before falling silent again. “My uncle says he wants fifty dollars for her. I don’t think he’ll take kindly to any less.”

Hubert just tuts under his breath, shaking his head in disdain. He projects an easy confidence, despite knowing very little about horses, instead hoping his gamble pays off. “How long has this animal been at the breakers, Marianne?” he asks, stroking the horse’s nose. His voice is low, even, but he plays on the girl’s obvious love of animals, pulling at her heartstrings. “I can’t imagine anyone wants a horse they can’t ride. If your uncle don’t find a buyer soon, he’ll shoot the damn thing. Boil up the carcass and turn her into glue. I’ll give you twenty dollars to take her off your hands, you take it or leave it.”

Marianne looks like she’s a minute away from crying. But she accepts the money readily enough, too afraid to say otherwise. Another ten dollars and he has a full set of tack, rigging the horse from head to toe and preparing it for the ride back to camp.

“She’s got a name,” Marianne says as Hubert hauls himself into the saddle for the first time. It’s a lot higher than he’d anticipated, and he keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon so he’s not tempted to look down.

“Great,” he says coldly. “I don’t care.”

He squeezes the horse’s flanks, spurring it into action with a kick and a _‘hyah’._

He doesn’t look back.

He returns to the camp the best part of three hours later, just as the sun begins to set. Both the horses are tied up by the river, whinnying to each other as they establish which is top dog. Wordlessly, Hubert places a bag full of food at Edelgard’s side, laying a box of ammunition down by his rifle. He’d bought her a coat, too, something to stave off winter’s chill. It’s a fine piece, dark red and double-breasted, fastened with polished brass buttons. Edelgard can only watch on in confusion, brows pinched together in a frown.

“Hubert?” she asks, almost in disbelief. “Where did you get this?” she continues, running her hands over the coat. “The bullets, too. And the _horse?_ Where did you get the money for that?”

He shakes his head. There are some things she’s better off not knowing. “Do not worry yourself with that, Lady Edelgard.”

“I demand you tell me!” 

“There are some secrets I must keep, even from you,” he whispers, just enough of a warning in his voice to tell her to stop pushing.

“Did you steal this?”

“I didn’t--” 

Hubert cuts himself off. Edelgard didn’t need to know the details. She’d never look him in the eye if she knew. So he shakes his head again, trying to find a way to admit to his sins without putting it into words.

“There was some law-breaking involved,” he says eventually, “but you don’t need to know the specifics. All that matters is that I am safe and well.”

Despite Edelgard’s determination, he refuses to tell her any more. Instead, he makes a start on their evening meal -- it’s nothing much, beans and corn and peppers, but when it’s served up to her, Edelgard eats like a starving animal, like the simple food is the greatest meal on earth. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Hubert teases, then immediately realises his mistake.

“What about you?” she asks, lips slightly apart. “Hubert, you must eat.”

He stares down at the bowl in front of him. His stomach turns at the sight. Gently, he shakes his head, handing his plate over to her instead. “I’m not hungry,” he murmurs. “You should finish it. You look like you need it more than I.”

Edelgard objects, of course she does. But eventually her protests fall silent; she tries on her coat, pulling the collar up to protect her face from the cold. It makes her look older, somehow, almost regal. Hubert has to remind himself that she's nothing more than a child, that she's not a queen or an empress but a girl grown up too soon.

When they lie back under the stars that night, it’s just like it was at the start of their journey, with Edelgard lying next to him, staring up at the night sky. A decent meal and a warm coat has put her in good spirits. For once she doesn’t talk of revenge, but of the sort of trivial things she spoke of as a child, of the sound of the river and the highlands beyond. And when she falls silent and her breathing starts to even out as sleep takes her, she sounds as calm and peaceful as still water, an oasis in a dry desert. Tonight, it seems, the nightmares that plague her are a long way away indeed.

Hubert sits and watches the stars move across the sky for a while, tiny dots of light far beyond his reach. At his side, Edelgard shifts in her sleep. Her face falls into a troubled frown, a gentle sigh escaping her lips. Even in sleep she isn’t at peace. Not yet.

He could watch her like this forever.

“I love you,” he says quietly, the realisation coming all at once. “Like family. More than family. And I would do anything for you, anything at all. Just say the word and consider it done. I made my promise then, and I intend to keep it.”

He doesn’t expect a reply from Edelgard. She’s fast asleep, after all, dead to the world. Perhaps that’s why he can muster the courage to speak, to utter those words into the night. Were she awake, she'd take it the wrong way, if she even accepted it at all. No, it was better this way, for her to remain ignorant of the feelings he keeps locked up in his chest. 

That's his burden to bear, not hers.

"I love you," he says again, his words carried away on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy!
> 
> If you made it this far, let me know your thoughts in a comment?
> 
> Part 3 will be posted sometime next week 🤠


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for being a bit of a gory chapter. Blame Dimitri's right eyeball.

Faerghus County, New Mexico

May 1874

The days turn to then to months, then years. 

They’d started taking jobs to earn their keep. It wasn’t much, just a day or two of mercenary work in the towns they passed through, but it kept food on their plates and ammunition in their guns. With every day that passed, they grew a little more, becoming canny and shrewd in a way they never were before. The reward on their heads had increased, too, now a hundred dollars apiece for their return. 

Hubert had found a solution to their cash flow problem. With his first paycheck he’d bought a set of throwing knives, each one just under a pound of precisely-weighted steel. After a few months of practice he’d become just as quick and accurate as any gunslinger, without the need for a new belt of ammunition every few weeks.

He still sleeps with his father’s rifle at his side, just in case.

Fate brings them back to Faerghus four years later. They’ve changed again, in the time since; Hubert had grown another few inches, become a little darker under the eyes, perfected his menacing stare. Edelgard had slowly become a young woman, still hauntingly beautiful but now with a few more scars to show for it. Her aim had improved, her muscles strong and tight, and the ferocity with which she wielded an axe sometimes scared even him.

Finally, they were ready.

A few weeks ago, Edelgard had beaten some answers out of a wandering bounty hunter. The conspiracy went so much further than they’d previously thought: bribes, corruption, a web of crime that linked most of the towns in New Mexico. It seems like the scared little girl stolen away by her uncle five years ago was only a small piece in a very large puzzle indeed. 

Their list of names keeps getting longer. 

They’d tracked Cornelia back to that small town in Faerghus County. It’s a wicked place, the sort that values its saloon over its church and treats its dogs better than its women. Lawless, too, run under the table by a gang of men with scorpions on their wrists. Rumour has it that the son of the late Sheriff Blaiddyd had taken up his father’s post once he came of age, and appointed a freed slave as his deputy. 

Neither man was yet twenty-one years old.

“No wonder this place is such a dive,” Hubert remarks, pulling his horse to a stop just outside the town. He regards it coldly, assessing the roads for escape routes should they need it. It’s not a large place, not much bigger than San Adrestia, but it seems to have fallen on hard times in recent years. The guest house is vacant, half the roof caved in. Decrepit buildings with boarded-up windows line the main street. Two red-headed ranchers bicker on the outskirts of town, clearly brothers.

Edelgard is practically itching with apprehension at his side. To the outward observer she’s a picture of composure and grace, but Hubert can see it in the little things. The way her feet shift in the stirrups, the way her eyes twitch and narrow in anticipation. Truly, there was no-one on earth who understood her the way he did.

They head into town together, scarves pulled up to hide their faces. The church bell tolls four as they ride, passing shuttered windows and cold stares, the horses kicking up dust as they go. White-panelled buildings stare blankly out on all sides. The air is hot and dry, the wind howling around them. 

Dust swirls in eddies at their feet. 

“You ready?” Edelgard asks, dismounting outside a run-down establishment announcing itself as the ‘Blue Lion Saloon’. The horses are quickly tied up outside, their weapons retrieved, locked and loaded. Hubert clenches his rifle in both hands. This is the beginning of the end for those who slither in the dark, the start of a long road to blood and ruin. Once they do this, there's no going back.

Edelgard pulls her hat down low to keep the afternoon sun from her eyes. She counts down on her fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

“Nobody move!”

Hubert kicks in the door, calling for the patrons to get down. 

Everything happens at once.

The barkeep reaches for the gun beneath the counter. Hubert shoots him in the head before he can draw. The body drops to the floor, but Hubert has already moved onto the next, taking out any men that go for weapons of their own. Edelgard covers his blind side, firing at everything that moves. She grits her teeth and yells as she picks her way through the bar, leaving only bodies behind, a concentrated force of grace and fury.

Hubert’s rifle runs empty. A man on the stairs reaches for his gun. But Hubert is faster, flinging one of his knives into the man’s chest. A strangled, wet scream rings out, and then the corpse tumbles down the stairs.

Tables are flipped up. Smoke and gunshots fill the air. Hubert spies his target and tosses another blade into exposed flesh. It’s not a death blow, but that was never his intention.

A tense silence falls.

He and Edelgard stand back to back, covering each other’s six. Edelgard has her gun trained on the figure at the back of the saloon, a beautiful woman with a throwing knife sticking out of the right side of her chest. Cornelia is surrounded by a fog of gunsmoke. The four hired thugs around her are face-down on the tables or with their heads rocked back against their chairs, a neat bullet hole in the centre of every forehead.

The remaining patrons stare at them, hands hovering over weapons but none of them willing to risk the draw. Hubert uses the brief lull to reload, observing the crowd as carefully as they watch him. Some of the men stare in fear, some stare in defiance, some with sightless eyes that stare blankly out at nothing at all. 

Nobody will dare to challenge them, of this Hubert has no doubt.

Edelgard clears her throat. Even Hubert can’t shake off his nerves, but he focusses himself until nothing but cold determination remains.

Now is hardly the time for distractions.

“I don’t want to harm anyone else,” she announces to the saloon, slowly making her way across the floor. The wood creaks beneath her feet, the only sound the _clink-clink_ of her spurs as she walks. “Y’all best be on your way. I got business with this woman. If you interfere, my man will shoot on sight.”

Hubert raises his rifle just a little, letting the patrons know he’s serious. He knows his job -- provide cover, watch her back, shield her with his body should he need to. 

“My, my,” comes a voice, low and seductive despite the obvious strain behind it. “Little Edelgard. You’re all grown up--”

Edelgard doesn’t wait for any more taunts. She grits her teeth, yanking the knife out from Cornelia’s chest. A scream rings out, high and shrill. 

Detached, Hubert watches on. He takes back the knife from Edelgard’s hand, cleaning the blade against the leg of his trousers before sliding it back into its sheath.

“Thought we’d find you slithering around in here like the snake you are,” she spits, her voice full of righteous anger. Slumped over the table, Cornelia opens her mouth to speak, but Edelgard doesn’t let her. “Why did you do this to me?” Edelgard asks, running her fingers along the handle of the tomahawk she keeps at her belt. Every eye on the saloon is on her, on the ever-growing patch of blood spreading across the table. The world holds its breath.

Silence descends. 

“Tell me!” she demands, grabbing Cornelia by the hair and yanking her head up until they're face to face. 

“Heh,” Cornelia says eventually, breathing heavily to try and control the pain. “Ha. So fiery. So passionate. Just like your mother.”

Edelgard turns pale. “My mother?” she asks, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her axe. She slams Cornelia's head back against the table. If she has to beat her answers out of the woman, then so be it. “What do you mean?”

That wicked laugh rings through the saloon. “My sweet child. She’d burn this town to the ground to see you again.” With a low moan of pain, Cornelia grabs the edge of the table, but even bloodied as she is, her face twists into a smile. She’s slow to speak. Just lifting her head to stare at Edelgard looks like a herculean effort. “Oh wait,” she sneers. “She did.”

“How dare you?” Edelgard snaps, lunging in to dig her fingers into the gaping knife wound in Cornelia’s chest. She uses it as a handhold, yanking Cornelia back into her chair. Both women scream, one in pain, one with rage. Blood runs down Edelgard’s arm, soaking into her sleeve. “Tell me what that means!” Edelgard shouts, but Cornelia shakes her head, her scream dying to nothing. The blood loss is getting to her, now, her eyes unfocussed, her voice starting to slur. Her head rocks back, baring her throat in invitation.

“Your uncle sends his regards,” she whispers.

Cornelia goes for the gun at her hip, but Edelgard gets there first. She reaches for her axe, drawing and slicing in one quick motion as she slits Cornelia’s throat. 

There’s a wet, rushing sound like a hose being cut, then a gurgle, and then an eerie quiet that rings in Hubert’s ears.

“Hm,” Edelgard says quietly, staring at the corpse lying limp in the chair, at the vast, jagged wound across its throat. For all that Hubert wants to go to her and hold her in his arms, he can feel the eyes on them, the frightened stares and hands resting uneasy on their weapons. Here is not the place for sentiment. 

He gives her a moment alone, using the time to pick through the corpses and retrieve his knives. Each one gets a cursory inspection and a clean before being replaced at his hip.

“She’s dead. She moved so quick and I just _acted._ I didn’t think.” Edelgard’s voice is muted, wavering. She exhales slowly, shaking all the while. “It’s not how I wanted it to be,” she adds eventually. Quietly, too, like she’s about to break any second. “I suppose it gotta be done. Only God can judge me now.”

“We could have used her for intelligence purposes,” Hubert counters, then curses his words. What Edelgard needs right now is a shoulder to cry on, not an advisor or a critic. Even _he_ can see that, cold and logical as he is.

Hubert doesn’t feel all that much these days, but a slight vein of guilt starts to thread through him. He should never have let Edelgard see that, much less force her to defend herself. What kind of a man could he call himself if he stood idly by and let this happen? How could he ever look Edelgard in the eye again, knowing that he’d failed her?

Cold fire burns deep inside him.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Edelgard replies, lips barely moving as she speaks. Her eyes stare blankly at the corpse sprawled out in front of her. But she clears her throat, tearing her gaze away and looking over the few remaining patrons that haven’t yet made their escape.

For all of Edelgard’s conflicting emotions, Hubert can see her burying the feeling down, suppressing it to somewhere it can’t hinder her mission. He’ll go to her later, ease her mind. Do whatever he can to make her burdens that little bit lighter, to bear the load alongside her. But right now, she’s an outlaw in a foreign town, and she can’t afford to show weakness. 

“We’ll be on our way,” Edelgard says, standing as tall as she can. “Don’t be following us, not ‘less you want to end up like your friends.” She gestures to the bodies around them. 

Hubert’s hands rest at his hips, at the knives he’s got ready and waiting. “My lady, we should be going,” he says quietly, offering his hand. “Leave this place, before the law catches up with us.”

But just as she takes his hand, a shout rings out from the doorway.

“Stand down!”

A young man flings the saloon doors open, his hair golden as it catches the light.

He’s growing into adulthood, a little over six feet tall, dressed in greys and blues faded by the sun. His back is ramrod-straight, eyes scrunched up in suspicion. A sheriff’s star sits polished on his lapel.

“Stand down!” he calls again, voice too low and grown-up for a boy of his few years. He holds a long-barrelled rifle up at the outlaws, with Edelgard firmly in his sights. “Ain’t no place for violence in this town. You newcomers had best come with me. The rest of you, get outta here. I don’t want no-one else to get hurt--”

He trails off as he takes in the sight of Edelgard standing at the end of his gun. She tilts her chin up, and he lowers his weapon, taking a step towards her. His face softens, overcome with emotion. Edelgard’s does not.

“El?” he asks, far quieter than before. He steps closer still, but Hubert places his hand in front of her, holding her back.

“My lady--” he starts, but Edelgard brushes past him, slowly walking to meet the sheriff in the middle of the floor.

“Dimitri?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper. “I know you.”

“Edelgard,” he says, his face dropping into a frown. His optimism is quickly suppressed. Instead, his expression turns sombre, polite. “I’m sorry for pulling my gun on you. See, I heard the shots, and then I saw you and I thought this man mighta been giving you trouble--”

Dimitri’s eyes go from Edelgard to Hubert to the bodies and then back again, taking in the blood staining her hands, the weapons she carries at each hip. Hubert doesn’t like the way Dimitri looks at her; he can see the anticipation in those blue eyes, the old memories rising to the surface. But whatever their connection, whatever their past, any kindness and warmth in Dimitri’s expression is long gone.

The last of the patrons make their escape. It leaves the three of them alone, the two outlaws at the wrong end of Dimitri’s rifle.

“You didn’t,” he asks, part question, part plea. “Tell me you didn’t.”

Edelgard shakes her head, but the truth is out. “There’s so much you don’t understand, Dimitri. About me, about Duscur, about those that orchestrated all this. I only wish I had the time to explain. I must--”

“No,” he whispers. Despite Dimitri's outward composure, Hubert can see the anger building inside him, clear in the way his hands tighten around his rifle, the way his body stiffens as he prepares to fight. He raises his weapon again. “You did this,” he realises, eyes widening in horror. “These men. You killed them. And Duscur, too, that’s on you. My father. Glenn. All of this. It was _you!”_

He roars the final word like an animal. His expression shifts. Shock, confusion, fear, disgust. 

Betrayal.

And then his face smoothes to nothing, an indifferent, even mask that gives nothing away. A growl builds in the back of his throat.

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert starts, but he’s too late. Dimitri snarls like a mountain lion, then lunges for Edelgard and wraps his hands around her throat.

Her cry is choked to nothing. 

Hubert reaches for a knife, but Dimitri bats his arm away, the blade clattering to the floor. A sharp blow to the face sends Hubert reeling backwards, then another to his stomach. Pain blooms across his cheek. Something takes his legs out from underneath him and he goes stumbling to the floor.

Impossibly strong, Dimitri lifts Edelgard clean off the ground, clutching her by her throat. Her fingers claw at his arm, her feet scrabbling for grip and finding none. She kicks out, going for his knees, but Dimitri doesn’t seem to notice, so angry that he no longer feels any pain.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he growls, eyes dark, “but you leave me no choice, damn you.”

“Dimi--” Edelgard whimpers, her face going red as he cuts off her air. “Dimitri-- you don’t--”

Hubert leaps back to his feet. He barges into Dimitri, tackling him to the ground. Edelgard drops with them. She lands on all fours, gasping for air--

“You stay outta my way!" Dimitri snarls, pinning Hubert to the floor and silencing any reply with a sharp jab to the neck. Stars dance in his vision. Winded, Hubert tries to go for his gun, but Dimitri headbutts him in the forehead, making the world spin around him. Another question, something Hubert can’t work out. Pressure builds in his skull like it’s going to split open any second. Dimitri is still snarling, but Hubert can’t hear it, the voice disappearing in a haze of searing pain--

And then a scream.

Edelgard pulls something from her boot, leaping onto Dimitri’s back and jabbing the knife into his shoulder, over and over. He snaps around to fend her off, but Hubert kicks out his knees and he goes tumbling back to the floor, the blade still sticking from his shoulder.

Before he can get back up again, Hubert grabs Edelgard’s wrist in one hand, his rifle with the other, and races out the door.

The sun hits like a slap to the face, painfully bright after the dingy half-light inside. The sandy earth hurts to look at, every colour too white, too intense. Hubert drags Edelgard back to the horses, kneeling and offering a hand to give her a leg up into her saddle. 

“Quickly,” he says, urging her on. “We gotta move, and fast.”

He’s up on his horse a minute later, and then they’re riding out of town together, spurring the horses as fast as they’ll go. He checks back every few seconds, watching to see if they’re being pursued. Sure enough, a few minutes later a figure slumped in his horse appears at the edge of town, surrounded by a cloud of dust. The hoofbeats thunder behind them.

Hubert digs his heels into his horse’s flanks, pushing it faster on. But his horse is considerably faster than Edelgard’s ageing stallion, and he finds himself hanging back so she isn’t left behind. And all this time Dimitri’s silhouette is growing ever-larger, slowly catching up with them.

“Lady Edelgard!” Hubert calls, shouting over the sound of hoofbeats. “He’ll catch us before we reach safety. We have to--”

Edelgard looks over her shoulder to Dimitri, then yanks the reins around, forcing the horse to wheel back towards him. It wasn’t what Hubert had in mind, but he follows suit, riding at her side as she charges him down. 

“My lady,” he tries again, but Edelgard isn’t listening, scowling as she drops the reins, holding on with only her thighs and reloading her weapon. Her face is screwed up in determination, and she holds out her gun, ready to fire. She spurs the horse back towards Dimitri, screaming as she fires off the first shot.

He returns fire, the sound of gunshots making Hubert’s ears ring.

 _Bang._ Aim. _Bang._ Aim. Edelgard screams as the horses approach, firing off her final shot.

Dimitri’s horse tumbles to the ground, the beast screaming as it dies. Dimitri is thrown from his saddle, his body skidding across the ground before coming to a halt in the dirt.

Hubert pulls his horse to a standstill. But Edelgard just slows hers to a trot, circling the body sprawled in the dust. The knife Dimitri had given her as a child is still embedded deep in his shoulder. His shirt, once blue, is now torn open in several places, the fabric red-black with blood. The rest of his clothes are dirty and covered in dust, ripped and scuffed by the impact. His face is covered in abrasions, shallow grazes that coat his skin.

His eyes are closed, his body painfully still.

Going against Hubert’s warning, Edelgard dismounts, crouching down at Dimitri's side. Almost affectionate, she brushes the hair from his forehead, staring down at his face.

“Who _are_ you?” she asks, frowning as she talks to herself. Her voice is full of regret. “Dimitri,” she says again. “I know you. How do I know you?”

She purses her lips, and says nothing else. 

Hubert spurs his horse to her side. He doesn’t consider himself a jealous man, but the way she looks at him makes him uneasy, makes his heart shrivel in his chest. “Is he dead?” he asks, silently hoping for a good answer. “My lady--”

Dimitri opens his eyes.

He roars, grabbing Edelgard by the knees and dragging her back to the floor with him. He’s snarling like a rabid animal, bleeding all over. Edelgard kicks and bucks, but Dimitri is far stronger, holding her down and hitting her across the face, over and over. He yanks the knife from his shoulder, holding it above her chest--

Hubert pulls his rifle from his back. The angle isn’t the best, but in the heat of the moment he doesn’t think any further than that.

He steadies his hands. Exhales. Aims. 

Squeezes the trigger.

Dimitri’s head snaps to one side. His body slumps atop Edelgard, a streak of blood and gore painting the sand to her left side in time with the gunshot. The knife drops to the floor, blade covered in a sheen of blood.

Grunting with the effort, Edelgard heaves Dimitri’s body to one side, pushing him over until he’s laid on his back, staring up at the sun. Despite the huge facial wound, he’s still alive, remaining eye wild and unfocussed. His chest flickers up and down, breathing three, maybe four times a second.

“My lady?” Hubert asks, and she nods, getting to her feet. 

She stares down at her shaking hands. She’s drenched head to toe in blood, her face painted with flecks of skin and flesh and bone. “I am unharmed,” she starts, but her voice is barely audible, the rest of her words are too quiet to hear.

“Are you certain?”

Edelgard nods again. “I’m sure of it.” 

Still, she doesn’t look up to Hubert, her attention only on the body at her feet. Hubert drops from the saddle to stand at her side, finally letting his derision into his voice as he looks over the pitiful creature at their feet. His top lip twitches into a cruel smile. “Stay down this time, sheriff.”

Everything is quiet. Too quiet. It only lasts for a second, but that time stretches out unbearably, a moment that seems to last forever. 

And then laughter fills the air, a horrible, grating laugh. Dimitri clutches at where his eye used to be, a huge chunk of flesh simply _missing_ from his head. His face is torn open from eye to ear in a narrow v-shape where the bullet has shattered the bone and torn the flesh clean away. A sliver of his skull is visible, bright white against the gore.

Hubert leaps away as Dimitri throws his head back, his remaining eye painfully wide, pupil a pinprick in the sun. He cackles uncontrollably. His hands shake. Convulsions wrack his body, shaking and heaving like a ship tossed on a stormy sea, and still the laughter does not stop.

It’s uncomfortable to watch. Hubert cocks his rifle. He’d be doing the man a kindness by putting him out of his misery.

At the sound, Dimitri’s laughter finally stops. He pants like a dog in the heat, watching Hubert as he goes for the killing shot. That once-handsome face is mutilated beyond hope, and if the wild look in his eye says anything at all, Dimitri’s mind is much the same.

“Wait,” Edelgard says, holding him back. There’s a real ache behind her words, those pent-up emotions collapsing over her all at once. “He means something to me, Hubert. We can’t kill him. He’s done nothing wrong. If only I could remember...”

Hubert waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t say anything else.

High above, the crows and vultures are already wheeling, eagerly awaiting their next meal. 

He looks back to the town, the sound of hoofbeats pulling him from his thoughts. A lone rider is coming out after them, closing the distance rather too quickly for his liking.

“Then we’ll leave him to his fate,” Hubert says simply. He raises his rifle and shoots Dimitri in the foot.

An agonised scream cuts through the air, more like that of a wild animal than a man. If there was anything left of that handsome, courteous young sheriff that had stood up for his town a few short minutes ago, it’s gone.

“That’s torture,” Edelgard says, detached.

“That’s to stop him from following us,” Hubert counters. “He’s done it before. He’ll do it again, mark my words. And it seems we’re being followed. We should head back, before we’re caught.”

He looks back to the rider, now painfully close. Hubert turns his back on the body bleeding out on the arid ground, instead making a run for the horses.

But the rider gets there first, pulling up between the outlaws and their horses, cutting them off. He halts his own horse with a sharp tug on the reins, shotgun already pointed at Hubert. 

The rider is a huge man, his arms thick with muscle. His hair is scraped back into a ponytail, shaved short at the sides. A blue serape is draped around his shoulders, a single gold ring adorning one ear.

“I should have you killed,” the man says. His voice is low and dull.

Hubert looks him over again, trying to find a sign of weakness. He’s tall and well-built, brown skin marked with scars. He knows how to handle himself in a fight, that much is very clear. But he keeps looking over to Dimitri’s body with wide eyes, a hint of fear beneath the stoic exterior.

So this is Deputy Molinaro.

Which means that Hubert knows exactly where to strike.

“You’re too dark to be Comanche,” he muses, squinting up at the man. “That means you’re one of them. Duscur people. Slaves. Thought you were all wiped out.”

“Duscur is gone,” comes the reply, measured and even. “The sheriff is the reason I survived.”

“That’s why you followed him?”

“I would gladly give my life to protect him.”

Hubert smiles to himself. “A foolish decision. Your obedience is simple-minded and blind. I suppose a man as dull as yourself traded brains for brawn. You will never understand true loyalty, true devotion. Not in the way I know--”

“You are more than your loyalty to one man,” Edelgard interrupts, speaking over Hubert to talk to Dedue. “There must be more than this. Is that truly all you are?” 

Dedue doesn’t grace that with an answer. “Leave this place,” he barks from atop his horse. He cocks his gun to emphasise his words. “Let me grieve. And then I will come for you, and you both will pay for your sins.”

“He’s alive,” Hubert counters. “Hush with that sentimental filth.”

“I _will_ shoot you--”

“Not if you value his life,” Edelgard calls. She’s panicking, desperate. Both her hands are wrapped around her six-shooter, pointed down at Dimitri’s forehead. “You shoot my man, I’ll shoot yours. You can’t have it both ways.”

“Hm,” Hubert says dryly, licking his lips to distract him from the shotgun pointed at his chest. He’s gotten very good at intimidating his enemies, but it’s a tough job with a man like Dedue looking down on him. Still, Hubert has one card left to play. “It seems we are at a stalemate. Lower your weapon. Don’t waste my time.” He smiles, glancing back over his shoulder to the body in the dirt. “Of course, we _could_ wait this out. Lady Edelgard and I have all day. But I doubt your dear sheriff will last much longer without medical attention. What’s it gonna be, Deputy?”

He lets silence fall. This was only ever going to end one way. Sure, it hadn’t gone quite how they’d planned, but Edelgard would come out on top in the end. Hubert won’t stand for anything else.

They leave Dedue Molinaro kneeling at the feet of the man he claims to love.

Hubert gets up on his horse and spurs her to a canter with a _hyah,_ leaning back in the saddle and trying to put the day behind them. He lets himself sneak one last look at the town before he goes. He can see a parallel of sorts between him and the deputy, as much as he’s loath to admit it. But no-one could ever come close to the depth of his affection towards Edelgard, his loyalty, his dedication. They were something he couldn’t even put into words, their bond deeper and stronger than any man could voice. 

He doesn’t dare to think about what he’d do if their positions were reversed, if it were Edelgard lying on her back in the desert.

The quicker they can leave this wretched place behind them, the better. 

The two outlaws disappear off into the desert without so much as a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who's already commented -- you're awesome! For anyone else still reading, drop a comment and let me know your thoughts? It'd make the next chapter come much faster 🤠
> 
> So I feel like it's gotta be said. The Wild West, for all I romanticise the shit outta it, was a dirty, nasty place. It was harsh, it was cruel, it was everything you'd expect a lawless place ruled by money and violence to be. It was also very, very, racist. The whole basis of this "golden age" was built on genocide and oppression. That's been touched on before in previous fics in regards to Petra and Dedue, but here's where it starts to involve characters and events in a more-than-tangential manner (namely Duscur).
> 
> Here's my disclaimer: the characters in this are AU-verse caricatures drawn from a video game that treats its non-white characters like crap. In no way does the shit characters say in this fic reflect my views at all. It's a story about morally awkward (and sometimes just plain awful) people, told from the viewpoint of said awful people.
> 
> (Not Dedue, though, he's an angel and he deserves far better writing than he got.) 
> 
> It's important to recognise the ground on which the conventions of this genre are built, and dismantle them where necessary. There'll be more of exploration around Duscur in a later story, but I feel like it's gotta be said here first.
> 
> If you're still awake after all that, have a great weekend and I'll see you next week!


	4. Chapter 4

Back at their camp, Edelgard washes her hands in the river. Thin streaks of blood rush downstream, slowly disappearing with the flow.

It’s not enough. She’s drenched head to toe in Dimitri’s blood, matted in her hair with dirt and grit, staining her clothes. It’s under her fingernails, in the cracks and creases of her palms, a line of red painting her face.

“I had him,” she says. She doesn’t look up, instead staring at her hands in the water. “I’m not some delicate flower you have to protect. You don’t have to fight my battles for me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Hubert counters, slowly walking down to her side. Night is beginning to fall, and he digs his hands into the pockets of his coat. His fingers twitch in the absence of a cigarette to occupy himself. Edelgard’s stare burns into his skin, making him itch all over, and he clears his throat before explaining. “Were something to happen to you, I couldn’t live with myself. You mean the world to me. If you really care, the best thing you can do is stay safe.”

“Not if it puts you in danger.”

Hubert chuckles to himself. For all her intelligence, she really has no idea. Her defiance is endearing, her concern even more so. “Permission to speak freely, my lady?” he asks, and Edelgard scowls at him again.

“You don’t need my permission to talk, Hubert. I value what you have to say, no matter how fawning it may be.” 

She folds her arms, expectant. Under her glare, he sits down on the riverbank, pulling his coat off, then the belt of knives he keeps strapped to his waist, one of the blades still lying on the floor of that saloon. He considers his words carefully.

“Lady Edelgard,” he starts, looking out to the horizon. She’s not going to like what he has to tell her, but it has to be said. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation. It’s unlikely to be the last. “I am expendable,” he explains. “Just a pawn in this game of ours. What matters is that you track down those that did this to you and make them pay. If that comes at the expense of my life, then so be it.”

“Nonsense,” she replies, but Hubert shakes his head.

“There are still things we disagree on, it seems.”

“Did you _dare_ to defy me, Hubert?”

He freezes up. The words die in his throat. “These things are beneath you. _I_ am beneath you. Occasionally I may defy your orders, but it is only with your best interests at heart.”

She chuckles to herself, shaking her head. She pulls off her boots, leaving them with her hat at the edge of the riverbank. “Good to see you’ve grown a backbone, at least.”

“If this angers you--”

“I’m teasing you, Hubert. That was a joke.”

Edelgard smiles, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. Hubert’s sharp mind has already come up with a retort, but he’s not sure if he should voice it for fear of sounding cruel. But she stares at him expectantly, expecting a parry to her strike.

He can’t help himself. He’ll do whatever she asks of him and not think twice.

“It is a damned shame,” he says dryly, “that your many talents don’t extend to making jokes.”

She smiles again, more genuinely than before. “See?” she asks, winding a lock of her hair around her finger. “You can talk honest to me.”

Hubert nods. “Of course. But if you dislike it, say the word and I’ll be quiet as the dead--”

With a shake of the head, Edelgard slips her hand into his. The simple action stops him in his tracks. His voice falters.

“Hopeless,” she muses, looking up at him with wide eyes and that tiny smile. She shakes her head. “Absolutely hopeless.”

“I don’t understand--”

But she’s gone again, walking back into the water to clean herself up. Hubert watches her for a while, until she smacks her hands into the river, splashing water all over him. 

“Lady Edelgard,” he warns, but she does it again, a sudden chill running through him as the water sinks into his clothes.

“Join me, Hubert!” she calls, jubilant. She laughs to herself, staggering back towards the edge of the river.

She hasn’t acted like this since she was a child.

A strange feeling hits Hubert all of a sudden, somewhere between pride and longing. These precious moments together are so rare, so intimate, so different to the stony-faced young woman who daren’t reveal her emotions lest they be used against her. But here she is, showing that side of her, baring her soul to him. 

“Come, Hubert. The water’s nice, once you’re in.”

She grabs him by the hand, dragging him down towards the water. Reluctant, he digs his heels in, but Edelgard is deceptively strong for her size, and he can’t do much to stop her. 

“If you insist,” he says through gritted teeth, “but at least let me undress first.”

He gets a minute’s grace to remove his boots and outer layers before she’s dragging him back towards the river again, the air filled with the sounds of the stream. He wades against the current, but his feet slip and he drops face-first into the water. 

Embarrassed, he splutters and curses as he gets back to his feet. But Edelgard laughs again, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him back up. Both of them are soaking wet and shivering.

“You look a state,” she says, her teeth chattering as she speaks. 

Hubert smiles to himself. “You shoulda seen the other guy.”

“Hubert. You’re filthy.”

“As are you.”

She’s done her best to get rid of the blood, but it’s still in her clothes, her hair. Hubert gestures to his cheek and Edelgard mirrors the action; her fingers meet the streak that’s plastered over her face, and her fingertips come away covered in red. He passes her a handkerchief, already stained beyond saving with red-brown patches of blood. 

She thanks him with a nod.

They wash the dirt away in silence.

Edelgard starts to yank her fingers through her hair, undoing her braids. Hubert catches her hand, though, reaching to sweep a stray tress from her face.

“Please,” he says softly, “allow me.”

She tenses up for a moment, but eventually she turns her back and lets her hair cascade down past her shoulders. It takes a little bit of thinking to work out how to release the plaits, but Hubert is nothing if not insightful. After a few minutes her hair is free, a white wave tangled by the wind.

Gently he begins to comb the blood and grit from her hair. His fingers catch in the knots, but he works through it slowly, methodically, starting from the top and working down. Edelgard’s hair is fine and brittle in his hands, damaged from the harsh sun and years of neglect.

His fingers catch and she hisses in pain.

“My apologies,” he murmurs, but Edelgard cranes her neck back to stare up at him, her eyes dark with emotion and oh-so difficult to read. She looks troubled. Whatever her connection to Dimitri, the fight has rattled her.

The water rushes around them. The evening air is cool and full of birdsong, the barrens around them arid and empty. She’s even more beautiful like this, with the dying light dancing in her eyes and the water making her clothes stick tight to her skin.

“Are you well?” Hubert asks, staring down at her the way a sinner stares at the cross. The tangles are gone from her hair, but still he runs his hands through it, watching the waterfall tumble through his fingers. “There is something that troubles you. That man. Dimitri. You were close.”

Edelgard turns to face him, slaking her hands and arms with the water once again, washing away the blood until only pale skin remains. She sends him a tight-lipped half-smile and shakes her head. “I will explain some other time, Hubert. Not now.”

“Of course,” he replies, letting his hands fall back to his sides. Stood by her like this, it’d be so easy to wrap his hands around her waist and rest his chin on top of her head, to pull her into an embrace and never let go. Hubert’s body aches to feel it, to hold her against him once more. But he values her over everything else, more than any love or power or gold.

So he doesn’t.

“You’ve served me well,” she says, clearly lost in thought. She starts to unbutton her outer shirt, deft fingers making short work of the fastenings. “Should this killing be too much, you may leave my side at any time. I won’t think any less of you.”

Hubert only watches as she strips off her outer layers, the white shirt beneath stained indelibly with blood. The shape of her body shows through the wet fabric, and he averts his eyes, ashamed.

“Lady Edelgard,” he murmurs, not quite able to look up at her. “There is nothing I would rather do than fight at your side. Whatever you wish for me, that is my purpose.”

“Is your heart not heavy enough?”

“For you?” He shakes his head, then laughs under his breath. “There is no sin I would not commit to keep you safe.”

Edelgard shakes her head again, then turns her back to him once more. She cranes her neck, working out her shoulders. Tight muscle ripples beneath the bloodstained fabric.

And then she’s pulling off her ruined shirt, exposing a slender waist and fair skin crossed with a few distinct scars. Some of them Hubert knows, some he does not. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder, wringing out the water.

“You’ve done a damn good job,” she says. She sneaks a glance over her shoulder, a wry smile pulling at her lips. “Now didn’t your ma teach you it was rude to stare?”

Blood rushes to Hubert’s face. His body feels very hot and uncomfortable all of a sudden, like someone had attached a lead weight to his chest. He clears his throat, staring down at the water. “Of course,” he says, deeply embarrassed. “I’ll go--”

A laugh cuts him off, high and sweet. Hubert’s heart tightens, but Edelgard shakes her head, looking over her shoulder at him.

“No,” she says. “Stay.”

Hubert shakes his head. “I shouldn’t,” he murmurs. “It wouldn’t be fitting. You are undressed.”

“Hm,” Edelgard replies, looking down at her body as if only just noticing. “Yes,” she murmurs, “I suppose I am.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Hubert isn’t sure what to make of the situation. He’s struggling to keep a lid on the feelings rising inside of him, feelings he’d long-ago locked up. It was too dangerous, too likely to get in the way of their mission. But try as he might, he can’t stop staring. She’s a figure made of ivory and white marble, fire made flesh. Get too close and he’ll get burnt: he’s known this since day one, but like an arsonist given a box of matches, he can’t help but watch the flames.

“Hubert,” she whispers, “come a little closer.”

He swallows, hard, then wades into the water until it reaches his mid-thigh. Edelgard is still clothed from the waist down, but the top half of her body is painfully exposed. 

Self-conscious, Hubert keeps his eyes fixed on the water, his hands in loose fists at his sides. His heart is going like a jackhammer, every muscle in his body pulled tight. But Edelgard seems completely at ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She turns to face him, taking his hands and guiding them to her hips. Then she reaches up to his face, tilting her head back so she can look into his eyes.

Slowly, Edelgard inches her fingers up beneath his shirt, pulling the fabric up, then over his head. Hubert has to crouch so she can reach. Once he’s free, she tosses his shirt back against the riverbank, resting her arms back around his shoulders.

Her eyes are the only thing Hubert can focus on; her hands are poised at the back of his head, the bare skin of her chest pressed up against his. 

There’s a question burning in her gaze. It’s unspoken, but it’s so obvious that she may as well be shouting, calling out her desires to the world. 

Hubert leans down and hushes her with a kiss.

Immediately he realises his mistake. He starts to back away, shaking his head as he goes. “Forgive me,” he says, guilt festering inside him. His voice is strained, trembling. He can’t get his thoughts in order. “That weren’t right of me. I wasn’t thinking. It won’t happen again--”

“Hubert,” she says, pleading. Her hands clutch at his like a lifeline. “It wasn't so bad,” she adds. She takes him by the hand, leading him back into the water. “And you can kiss me again, if you want.”

“You’re sure?”

She looks up at him with eyes half-closed. Her voice is a whisper. 

“Please.”

So Hubert does exactly as she asks.

He swoops in again, pressing another kiss to her lips. It’s different, this time; he’s asking more of her, a little more open, a little more desperate. He grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her close and keeping her there, holding their bodies together. 

Edelgard responds in kind. She melts against his chest, reaching up to guide his head, one hand under his chin, the other cupping the back of his neck. Her lips are chapped and dry from the desert air, but Hubert doesn’t mind in the slightest.

They keep it up for a second or two longer before breaking apart again, but their faces rest close together, his hands running down her back to hover at her hips again. Hubert grazes his teeth along her bottom lip, searching.

Slowly, her eyes flutter open, peering up through her lashes to gaze at him. 

“Let me see those eyes,” she murmurs, combing her hands through his sopping wet hair and slicking it back against his head. She admires her handiwork for a second, an artist staring at their creation. “It looks better out of your face,” she observes. “You’re rather handsome beneath all that, you know.”

Shame rears inside him, burning his throat, his face. He averts his eyes again, if only so he doesn’t embarrass himself any further. “My lady, you flatter me, but you and I both know that’s not true--”

She laughs again, cutting him off. “Just take the damn compliment, Hubert. And quit it with that ‘my lady’ nonsense. Least you can do is call me by my name.”

He nods, a little awestruck. “Edelgard,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss her once more. Then “Edelgard,” again, as she drapes her arms around his shoulders, standing up on her tiptoes to better reach. “Edelgard,” as he lifts her up to kiss her, her legs wrapped around his waist.

 _Edelgard,_ he thinks, as her face lights up and she giggles like a child. Her palms are cold and wet against his cheeks, her lips tasting faintly of coffee and gunsmoke.

The sunset is an explosion of oranges and reds, fading to midnight blue in the east. The fire rages above them.

It’s perfect. Everything about this is perfect.

Hubert carries Edelgard back to camp. It’s no more than a minute’s walk, but his arms and back ache by the time he lies her back against the old blanket, tracing his hands up the inside of her thighs. He bows his head and worships her like a believer would a goddess, feeling the strength in her arms, the power of her core, the softness of her lips and breasts despite it all. He’s on his knees in front of her, a sinner at the altar of a church.

Edelgard starts to shift beneath him, writhing and tensing in a way he’s never seen her do before. Even inexperienced as he is, he knows what’s coming next. He backs off, but she clambers into his lap, pushing him into the ground and kissing him again. 

“Please, Hubert,” she whispers. _“Please._ ”

All he can do is oblige.

He makes love to her under the stars. 

They lie in the remains of their camp when they’re done, sat naked and side by side as the desert winds blow above them. Hubert cradles Edelgard’s body against his own, still cold from the river, still warm from everything else. 

The smoke from the campfire blots out much of the sky, filling his lungs with the bitter taste. He can't get that night at the Hresvelg mansion out of his mind, but it matters little now. 

He dares to go for another kiss, this one to the top of Edelgard’s head. She’s short enough that he could do this every time they were stood together, a reminder that he’s looking after her. “You and I,” he murmurs. Try as he might, he can’t get the thoughts out of his mind. Thoughts of sex, sure, but also love and marriage and a future. Not children, not yet -- not _ever,_ unless Edelgard wishes it so. But the two of them, _just_ the two of them, for the rest of their days?

Hubert smiles to himself. Yes, if they were to spend their lives together, that would be just fine with him.

"I suppose I should tell you, now," he murmurs. He tracks his fingertips across her skin, her head tucked just underneath his chin. "I've always--"

“I’m sorry,” Edelgard whispers, and the idea vanishes from his mind. She curls up against him, but it’s so different to before. She’s closed herself off again, serious and icy-cold. Her forehead is pressed up against Hubert’s chest; it’s not a sign of love but of weakness, holding on like they’re teenagers all over again. “It’s not right,” she says, eyes closed. “I’ll never be right. I can’t give you what you need. I’m sorry.”

Hubert brushes the hair from her face again, dismissing her concerns. “You are _everything_ I need,” he starts, but he doesn’t get very far. No, Edelgard pushes herself up until she’s sat up above him, her legs pulled up to hide everything that should be hidden. She places one hand against his cheek, searching his face for answers.

Whatever she finds, she doesn’t like it.

“Oh, Hubert,” she murmurs. “You poor, deluded fool.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

The world falls away around him.

A great, empty void opens in his heart, twisting as if she’d just plunged her hand into his chest and ripped it clean away. His mouth is still hanging open, his jaw moving as if trying to make words, his breath caught and tight. The dam is perilously close to breaking. There’s nothing he can say.

He tries, regardless.

“Lady Edelgard--”

“I can’t love you,” she admits, almost rueful. “Not in the way you want me to. You serve me well, but I can’t give you this.”

“You said--” he starts, but she cuts him off with a shake of the head. 

“Just this once,” she clarifies. “I’m sorry I led you to believe that this--” she gestures to herself, then to Hubert, both naked in front of the fire, “is more than what it is.”

The confusion hits him first. Then betrayal, a deep, aching wound that makes him want to curl up and clutch at his chest until the pain goes away. As quickly as fate had given him hope, she had taken it away so bluntly and cruelly, dropping him without a second thought.

And then an unfamiliar feeling grips his body, something novel and strange and awful, a feeling that crushes his heart until nothing remains.

Heartbreak.

Hubert tries to swallow it down, but it won’t go, no matter how hard he tries.

“Of course,” he says with a nod, as solemn as a funeral and just as melancholy. Just as he’d started to see a future with her, she’d crushed it the way she crushes every obstacle in her path. His chest aches with grief.

If Edelgard wants him to leave her alone, then that’s exactly what he’ll do. He loves her that much. If she asked him to walk into the desert and never look upon her face again, he’d do that without a second thought. 

Would she do the same for him? Hubert isn’t sure. 

The reality of it comes crashing down, a final curtain call. She doesn’t look at him the way he looks at her. It’s unlikely she ever will.

He drops his hands away from her, desolate.

“I see,” he says quietly. His voice comes out hoarse and broken.

“Oh, Hubert,” she replies, her eyes full of pity. “Perhaps I could spend the night with you--”

He shakes his head. Looking away is the only way he can keep the emotion from his voice, counting the stones at his feet so he doesn’t have to see her face. “That won’t be necessary, my lady. I would never ask anything so demeaning of you.”

“Hubert--”

“Absolutely not. I’m not talking about this.” 

A quiet sigh escapes his lips as he rolls over onto his side, then gets to his feet again. He gets dressed quickly, pulling on his coat and boots, then the belt of knives. He reaches for his father’s rifle. “I’ll keep watch tonight,” he announces, still unable to look her in the eye. “In case the Duscur man comes after us. As for you, Lady Edelgard, you should rest. Alone.”

He doesn’t let her oppose him. Before he can say something he regrets, he makes his way up to an elevated patch of ground, where a small outcrop of rock gives him a better view over the land. This far away, she won’t be able to see his face. Perhaps that’s for the best.

Hubert prepares himself for the long night ahead. He loads the rifle, balancing it across his knee once he’s done. His fingers perform their usual motions of rolling and lighting a cigarette, tossing the burnt-out match aside and sighing in relief as the bitter taste of tobacco hits him once again.

He takes a deep breath in. A deep breath out.

And then he settles down against the rock to begin his vigil, all on his own.

~.*.~

The next few days are difficult.

Hubert barely eats, barely sleeps. He sustains himself on a diet of coffee and cigarettes, unable to stomach anything more than that. 

They can’t stay in Faerghus county long. It’s too dangerous. The deputy hadn’t tracked them down yet, sure, but it was only a matter of time. So they pack up their camp, load up the horses, and head back out into the barrens. He and Edelgard ride side-by-side in silence, wandering across the New Mexico desert in search of answers.

The sun beats hot above them. The heat is stifling, dry and unrelenting, almost painfully so. The horses snort and whicker to each other, tired and dehydrated but dutifully walking on. Edelgard has taken to wearing that blanket like a serape to keep the sun off. The red and gold fabric flies out behind her when the wind catches it. She’s a drop of blood in the arid yellows and browns of the desert, gilt-edged and fierce.

They don’t talk about that day. They don’t talk about Dimitri, or about the years she spent in that town. She doesn’t want to bring it up, and Hubert won’t press her for answers. Neither of them can change the past. Edelgard can barely even remember it.

They _certainly_ don’t talk about sex.

The only thing they talk about is their next target: one of Cornelia’s girls, a young woman using the alias ‘Monica’. She’s close to the man at the heart of all this. The puppet master behind the conspiracy is a man who goes by more names than they can care to count, a man who hides in the shadows like a copperhead waiting to strike.

Sure, the man has many faces, but Edelgard calls him ‘uncle’.

They arrive in town just an hour after the girl had run away on foot, spooked by word of the outlaws chasing her down. Neither Edelgard nor Hubert have eaten, but she insists they can’t stop. The horses are exhausted, but they push on anyway, Hubert kicking the beast until it charges back out into the barrens in pursuit.

Neither of them are skilled trackers, but smoke twists in the air from a campfire maybe a mile out, and Edelgard motions with her hand for them to follow the trail. Even if Monica isn’t there, she won’t have gotten far without a mount. And whoever the people are in this camp, they might be able to help them.

The details come into view as they approach, three figures gathered around the morning campfire. A man whistles to fill the day with music. He’s well-built and armed to the teeth, but smiling kindly at the others as he works. To his side, a dark-haired woman stares into space, her doe-eyes empty, her hand resting on the gun at her thigh. Her face is blank and expressionless. Hubert suspects father and daughter, given their ages, but his thoughts don’t get much further than that.

Because in the centre of the camp is a tiny, red-headed girl, blade in hand.

Time slows.

Hubert kicks his horse up to a gallop, forcing the animal as fast as it’ll go. But there’s no stopping the inevitable.

He sees the man’s eyes widen. Hears the gasp as the air rush from his lungs. Watches as he drops to his knees, as his daughter races to his side.

Without thinking, Hubert reaches for a knife, but Edelgard is already there. Her gun fires once, twice, splitting the morning air. 

Monica drops to the ground, her legs crumpling beneath her. 

The horses arrive into the campsite just a minute too late. Hubert can’t hear what’s being said from above the sound of the horses, but he can see the woman’s grief well enough. He and Edelgard can’t do much but watch as life is suddenly cut short, unwelcome bystanders in a place they don’t belong.

Neither of them have any words. Nothing seems right.

Eventually, Edelgard dismounts, and he quickly follows her example. She seems fixated on the stranger, with her unfamiliar face and unreadable expression.

“I’m not one for condolences--” Hubert starts, but Edelgard cuts him off.

“We’ll help you bury him,” she says to the stranger, her voice unusually gentle. “Can’t leave him here for the vultures to take. Every man deserves a decent burial. We can afford him that, at least.”

Hubert scowls. He’s not digging a grave for a stranger. If this woman wants to break her nails and split her hands doing that, that’s on her. And if Edelgard wishes to help her...

Perhaps he’s being harsh, but the uncomfortable silences and awkward glances of the last few days are still painfully clear in his mind. She knew the depth of his feelings, and yet she led him on like a dog on a leash. It was painful enough at the time, but looking back, it's _humiliating,_ in a way he can't put into words.

He should be better than this. He _knows_ he should. But the resentment remains, simmering just beneath the surface.

A quiet whine rouses him from his thoughts. A tiny figure crawls across the ground, scrabbling on her hands and knees. 

Monica clutches at her thigh, writhing in agony and keening in the back of her throat. Her hair is loose and matted around her face, jaw clenched and face contorted. She’s trying to shuffle away. With a bullet in her leg, she’s not going anywhere fast. 

She looks up as Hubert approaches, her eyes widening in fear.

“Please--” she whines. “Please don’t--”

He grabs Monica by the hair, hauling her to her feet. She screeches in pain, but Hubert drowns it out, dragging her away from the others. He uses the scrubby bushes to his advantage, flipping the girl onto her back and tossing her to the ground behind the greenery, far out of everyone’s sight.

No, Edelgard doesn’t need to see this.

The girl screams again, but Hubert smacks her around the mouth and she falls silent. She stares up at him with the terrified eyes of a rabbit as the hunting dogs close in.

Hubert narrows his eyes, letting his face drop into his favoured menacing stare. He pulls one of his knives from his belt, licking his lips in anticipation. Lazily, he spins the knife around in his hand, flipping the blade between his fingers.

There were many ways to get information out of someone, but he’s not the kind of man for wanton violence. Torture and bloodshed had their place, sure, but not when simple intimidation could do the trick. And watching the girl call for help and try to run, watching as the fight leaves her eyes and she braces herself for the horror to come?

Well, that was half the fun of it.

So he crouches down into the dust, resting on his heels and staring at the girl trying to scramble away from him. Try as she might, she’s not making much distance. She leaves a thin trail of blood behind her.

He watches her struggle for a moment more, before dragging her by the ankles back to his side. Slow as the sunset, he climbs atop her like a lover, pinning her into the dirt with his knees. He makes sure one knee rests just above the bullet wound in her thigh. 

Just a shift of his weight and she’ll be in agony.

“Shh,” Hubert whispers, placing one gloved finger to his lips and leaning in close. He flicks the knife in his free hand, bringing it to rest just below Monica’s right eye. “Are you going to behave, now, or are we gonna have to do this the hard way?”

Clearly terrified, she nods, just enough that the knife starts to dig into her skin. Hubert smiles to himself, lowering his voice until it’s barely audible over the screech of the vultures above. He clamps his hand under her jaw, squashing her cheeks.

“Good,” he adds. “I’d hate to carve up that pretty face of yours. Now get talking. The man at the top. Arundel. You might know him as 'Thales'. Is he in San Adrestia?”

“No,” she whispers, stammering. “No-- he ain’t. Not-- not there.”

She doesn’t offer anything else, and Hubert raises an eyebrow. He presses the knife against her cheek, silently asking for more. But she shakes her head, eyes wide, body tense and shaking in anticipation.

Hubert brings down the knife.

A huge, deep gash opens up over Monica’s cheek, splitting her face in two. She screams, but Hubert clamps his hand down over her mouth to silence her. Blood wells in the wound, streaking over her cheek. Her body bucks like a wild horse, but he keeps her pressed against the ground until her screams fade to sobs, then to whimpers.

When he’s sure she’s quite finished, he removes his hand from her mouth, tilting his head to one side to stare at her again. He grits his teeth and hisses like a rattlesnake.

“Arundel,” he says. “Where is he?”

Monica closes her eyes and whispers a prayer.

A second slash joins the first. Hubert repeats the cycle again, holding her down until her cries fade.

“Please,” she whispers eventually. “I’ll tell you. I don’t know much, but--”

Hubert has no time for grovelling. He grabs her by the face again, leaning in close. He eases his weight onto her bullet wound, and she moans in pain.

“Tell me,” he demands. _“Everything.”_

“I--” she starts, choking on a sob. “I don’t know much. He don’t tell me nothing, but I overheard him talking about a place called Merceus. I can’t tell you no more than that--”

“What is it?” Hubert snaps. “A town? A homestead?”

“I don’t know--”

He drags the knife across her other cheek, deep enough to scrape against her teeth below.

And this time when she screams, the blood sinks deep into his gloves. He can feel it against his skin, hot and wet and sticky against the leather. It's a deeply unpleasant sensation, but if it means Edelgard is even a fraction closer to her goal, it's but a small price to pay.

“You’re lying,” he whispers.

“I said I don’t know!” Monica begs, the tears flowing freely now. Her eyes are wide and pleading, searching for mercy. “Honest. You gotta believe me, sir, I can’t tell you no more.”

Hubert watches on, aloof and uncaring. She’s telling the truth.

“Say I believe you,” he says, wiping the blade of his knife against the cloth of her dress. Her face is a grotesque, distorted mess, but Hubert has no intention of stopping. “You tell me one more thing, and I’ll ease your suffering. Give you a quick and merciful death. Tell me where Salvador Vestra is.”

“Who?”

This time he jabs the knife into the bullet wound. He’s slowly becoming numb to the sound of human suffering, disaffected by the cries and shrieks of pain, the terror in her eyes and desperate flailing of her arms.

“Maybe I’ll leave you to the coyotes,” he muses, talking to himself and watching as the fear sets into Monica’s face. “Now that’s an idea. Abandon you out in the wastes and let the vermin eat you alive--”

“Leicester!” she calls, desperate. “He’ll be in New Leicester. He travels a lot. For his work. They have a meeting there, him and Arundel. I don’t know what they say, but-- but please, sir, you gotta have mercy. September time. That’s all I can tell you.”

Hubert looks her over. If there was any more information he could wring out of the girl, she would have spilled it by now. Instead her shouts have devolved into pleading, delirious and nonsensical.

He won’t get any more from her.

“Thank you for your co-operation,” he says, with the best smile he can muster.

He gets to his feet. Readies his rifle. 

A swift shot to the head, and the body falls still.

Hubert stares at the pitiful corpse for a few moments more, then picks his knife from the ground and wipes it clean. He drags the body away and leaves it on its back, staring up at the sky. Already the hungry desert scavengers have picked up on the rancid stench of blood and flesh. A mother coyote yips at her young, slinking around and eyeing up the corpse.

With a flourish, Hubert slips the knife back into his belt, leaving the body behind him for the wilderness to take. He nods at Edelgard as he passes, going to the horses and rummaging in the saddlebags until he finds a pad of paper and pencil, noting down the details. Another piece of the puzzle, another trail opening up ahead of them. Another name crossed off their list.

Hubert stares at the piece of paper in front of him, at the words written in Edelgard’s elegant hand, one name in a long line of many.

_Salvador Vestra._

His father will be in New Leicester, and soon.

He pushes back the feeling that rises inside him, instead tucking the paper back into the saddlebags and heading back to the two women at the edge of the river.

The stranger kneels in silence at the graveside. Silvery tracks trail from her eyes and down her cheeks, but any shed tears are long gone. She rests a hand on the head of the makeshift grave, a simple cairn of stones picked from the desert around them. Edelgard stands next to her, wordless.

“Thank you,” the woman says quietly, her voice empty and dull. However she’s grieving, she keeps it under wraps. “I owe you a favour. You got my word on that.”

“Think nothing of it,” Edelgard replies. “I only wish I coulda done the same for my family.”

The silence is painful.

Hubert shakes his head. He has the decency at least to remove his hat, but only briefly. The early summer sun is rather intense, after all. 

After a few more seconds, he clears his throat, back to business. “My lady, I have information we must discuss. We should be on our way--” 

“Travel with us?” Edelgard asks, not looking at Hubert but at the woman. “I know you’re grieving, but we’re after the people that did this. I’ve been wronged by them too. I’ll bring them all to justice if it’s the last thing I do. Besides, you look like you could do with the company. Won’t do you any good to travel alone, now. What do you say?”

The woman looks up at Edelgard, at her hand outstretched in friendship. She takes Edelgard’s offer, getting to her feet and shaking hands. “Please,” she says, nodding with a sharp jerk of her head. “I’d like that.”

Hardly talkative, he notes, and with plenty to hide. Frustration burns in his chest, but if that’s what Edelgard has decided, then he has no choice but to follow her lead. He’ll watch the woman like a hawk regardless. He’s not so naive to be taken in by a pretty face and enigmatic smile.

Hubert clears his throat again, trying to attract her attention.

“If you’re coming with us, I’ll need to know everything. Starting with your name. What do we call you, stranger?”

“Eisner,” the woman replies, her eyes never leaving Edelgard’s face. “Byleth Eisner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever think about what an awful little man Hubert actually is? I've thought about it a lot. Part of his charm, I suppose, if that's the right word for it...
> 
> Sorry the chapter's been a long time coming. Turns out moving house takes a lot of time and work! Should have the next chapter up by the end of the week, though, so keep an eye out for that :)


End file.
